His Greatest Problem
by somanyhands
Summary: Sherlock realises he has intense feelings for John. He doesn't approach John about it (because John's not gay, right?) Instead, he turns to an old friend to numb the feelings. Possible spoilers for S1&2 as this is a kind of alternate so expect a little AU also. Rated M for future content. This will be a multi-chapter fic.
1. Prologue

Sherlock Holmes' greatest problem wasn't that he was an occasional user of cocaine.

It wasn't that his insatiable, genius mind was constantly tormented by the comparable ignorance of everyone around him.

It wasn't that people thought him a psychopath when, in reality, he was a high functioning sociopath.

It wasn't that, no matter how many puzzles he solved, there were never, ever enough.

It wasn't that his elder brother, Mycroft, insisted on meddling in every aspect of his life.

It wasn't even that Jim Moriarty was his arch nemesis.

No, Sherlock Holmes' greatest problem was that he was utterly and completely in love with one Doctor John Watson.


	2. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was the world's only consulting detective.

At least, that's pretty much how he introduced himself.

John Watson didn't seem very convinced until Sherlock, in one sentence, completely unravelled John's entire life after meeting him for a mere 5 minutes.

You have to admit, that is pretty damn impressive!

So, John Watson became Sherlock's new flatmate and, quicker than you could say "there's a head in the fridge", John was Sherlock's sidekick: visiting crime scenes, analysing data and shooting psychopath cabbies-with-a-death-wish.

John Watson was the Yin to Sherlock's Yang.

Where Sherlock was single-minded, erratic and wild: a whirlwind in a meadow; a powerful but tactless mind, John was grounded, calm and thoughtful: a listener; a tether for Sherlock's wayward kite; an anchor for his listing ship; a heart.

Before long, Sherlock was wondering how he had managed to exist before John. Was there life before John? Sherlock could barely remember.

John made Sherlock whole. John made Sherlock... good.

Everybody assumed they were a couple.

It was an obvious conclusion, Sherlock thought. They clearly had some sort of connection.

Sherlock was dark, John was his light.

Sherlock was wild, and John tamed him.

Sherlock was 'not good', and John put him right.

There was little that John would not do for Sherlock and vice versa.

Brains; heart; love; light.

They were unstoppable.


	3. Chapter 2

Sherlock watched John. He liked to watch John.

Of course, you could argue that Sherlock Holmes watched everybody and everything, but, when he watched John, it was different somehow.

He didn't just watch so he could deduce, he watched him because he liked to.

This realisation confused Sherlock. He enjoyed watching John? Why?

He decided to examine a typical morning - well, as typical a morning as Sherlock and John ever have! - to see if he could figure it out.

Morning saw John awake and arise early. Sherlock didn't care much for routines or clock-watching but, as John was up, Sherlock got up too. He entered the living room to find John making tea and toast in the kitchen.

Sherlock threw himself on the sofa, facing the kitchen so he could watch discreetly. He smiled as John glided effortlessly from cupboard to kettle to fridge to counter to toaster, like a routine choreographed with military precision.

"Breakfast?" John called out, without losing his rhythm one bit.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, didn't answer, of course, but John slid two extra slices into the toaster and laid out two tea cups anyway.

Breakfast was passed in a companionable silence, only occasionally broken by the rustle of paper as John read the morning news - Mrs Hudson always ensures that the morning paper is there for them early in the morning. She's good like that - and the putting-down of tea cups.

Sherlock used this time - time when John is occupied; distracted but close - to watch. He watched John's face as it reacted to the news he read. He watched the way John closed his eyes as he savoured that first cup of tea of the day. He watched John's legs as they crossed in front of him, supporting the newspaper with a practised ease. Legs of a soldier: tight; strong; no longer in need of a cane.

The image of John using a cane crushed Sherlock momentarily. How broken John was then. The outside world saw John the soldier; John the doctor; John invalided home but still strong, alive, upright. Shoulders back, chest out, face resolute.

The world _saw, _but it did not _observe_.

The world didn't not observe the John that was being destroyed deep down inside. The John who screamed silently at the cane and gazed longingly at the pistol.

Sherlock had seen that John. Sherlock had _rescued_ that John.

He took a deep, grounding breath.

"Bored already?" John asked, raising an eyebrow as he glanced across the top of the paper. He'd mistaken the long exhalation for a sigh. Understandable, Sherlock supposed. He decided to play along.

Sherlock motioned his hand waywardly towards the general direction of his phone. "Nothing from Lestrade yet." he started, trying to feign a boredom that he wasn't actually feeling, "Anything in the papers?"

John didn't answer him, but he folded up the paper and laid it on his lap, watching the detective closely. Studying him? Giving him his undivided attention.

Sherlock frowned. "What?" he finally asked when the scrutiny had lasted just longer than was comfortable from this side of the study.

"You ok?" John enquired, mirroring Sherlock's frown. "You seem... distracted." John followed up with a slightly crazed laugh. "More distracted than your usual self, I mean."

Sherlock just shrugged and smiled. He didn't really have an answer. He was distracted. He was distracted watching John Watson. Observing every twitch. Every nuance. The way his face crinkled each time he smiled; each time he frowned.

Sherlock wasn't just aware of every reaction that John had though. He was also all too aware of the reaction he himself had to John. Like John could control how Sherlock felt inside without even knowing it.

John's absence made Sherlock feel empty. His presence in the room made Sherlock feel complete.

When John frowned, it made Sherlock sad inside, but when he smiled, it made Sherlock feel light as air.

And when John smiled directly at Sherlock, like he was doing right now; one of those genuine "you are crazy but you are my crazy friend" smiles, Sherlock's heart felt as though it would burst right out of chest and dance around the room - quite possibly singing something ridiculous.

It was at that precise moment that Sherlock realised what it was; what it all meant.

And a moment later, he realised just how completely screwed he was.


	4. Chapter 3

It's funny how murderers seem to prefer the bleak setting of grey and gloomy. Empty flats; abandoned warehouses; back alleys; basement. Never somewhere warm and dry, Sherlock thought. Maybe they thought that 'cold and damp' worked with them to hide evidence. Clearly, they didn't they realise how much could be left behind for even idiots like Anderson to find.

John circled the body, in that way he had of trying to do whatever Sherlock does, and examined the victim. "Ligature marks on the neck," he began, "so strangled then. Odd patterns in the marks - presumably from whatever was used. Body looks to have been moved about a bit after she died", he continued," but not far. Just some disturbances on the dirty floor locally. Could be from a struggle, I suppose." He stopped to look at Sherlock with an _"am I getting this right so far?"_ silent question.

Sherlock wasn't even looking at him. Anticipating John's stall, he had stopped his study of the doctor and returned to surveying the basement. John sideways glanced at Greg, who was watching both men, and shrugged.

Sherlock had been watching John as he studied the victim. He watched how John paced around the body, stopping every so often, touching her gently as if mindful of her pain and tilting his head as he processed information. Unlike the discordant noise of dinosaurs like Anderson, John's silent thoughts were like music to Sherlock's ears.

Sherlock shook himself from his distraction to work on his own deductions.

_Unmarried female (no sign of ring - not now, not ever), late 30s, travelled from the south west in recent days (rail ticket stub in left pocket), dead approximately 12 hours, strangled with her own belt (killer unprepared but clearly not in a hurry to clear up, because he put her belt back on her skirt afterwards). Murdered by 5ft 10 male (assumption made by angle of attack and visible hand marks from restraint), stocky build, size 11 feet, wearing smart dress shoes (footprints in damp slime near body - wouldn't be there if the location had been warm and dry). Lovers tryst gone wrong?_

It hadn't escaped Greg's notice how quiet Sherlock had been. He watched John circle the body, and noticed Sherlock watching him; almost captivated by him. When John started offering his suggestions, Greg noticed Sherlock start pacing around the basement, coat swirling behind him. After John had finished, Greg cleared his throat. "Sherlock?" he enquired, raising an eyebrow. "Anything to add?"

Sherlock twirled back to face the other men to find both Greg and John staring at him, faces looking serious and expectant.

"What?" Sherlock asked, feeling scrutinised and a little uncomfortable. Greg shook his head. Sherlock looked distracted, and Greg was more than a little bothered by that. "Deductions, Sherlock?" John eventually responded. "It's why we're here."

Sherlock effortlessly rattled off his results, adding that they should first try looking for a boyfriend or secret lover, and on finishing, swept out of the basement and up the stairs.

Greg looked bewildered at John. "I dunno, mate." John replied to Greg's silent question. "He's been off all day." Greg hummed. "You'd better go if you don't want to be left behind." he said, knowing Sherlock, in one of _those_ moods, wouldn't hesitate to just leave.

"Right, yes." John had become used to having to keep up with Sherlock, and he followed up the stairs, two at a time. "Wait up, Sherlock!" he shouted up.

He reached the outside door just as Sherlock was hailing a taxi - something Sherlock always found irritatingly easy to do. He'd just caught up to the detective as he started to get in. Sherlock moved across the seat and sat silently facing the window as John slid alongside.

The taxi ride was uncomfortable. Sherlock could feel John occasionally glancing at him, and it made him more and more anxious. The proximity of John was making him feel... something. What? He wasn't sure.

On the one hand, he wanted John close. He _loved _ John close. He _needed_ John close.

On the other hand, John's closeness was making Sherlock fidgety. Like he needed to do _something._

It occurred to Sherlock that he did need to do something. He tapped on the window to the driver who pulled over. "I'll get out here", he started, "please take Doctor Watson to Baker Street." With that, Sherlock was up and out and running along the damp London pavement, coat billowing behind him, and a very confused John Watson sat gazing after him from the taxi. "Right then, yes", the cabbie said, as if nothing remotely out of the ordinary had just happened, "Baker Street."

Sherlock disliked intensely the panicked feeling that was slowly snaking through him. He could feel it crawling all over him: from the ends of his wild, unruly hair to the tips of his toes. He could feel it worming its way around every limb, every joint and every muscle and taking hold of his internal organs and crushing them mercilessly. He stopped, finding himself in familiar surroundings. Not believing in coincidences, he suddenly knew exactly where he was going.


	5. Chapter 4

It'd been 5 hours since Sherlock had launched himself from the taxi, when he arrived back at 221B that evening.

He ran straight to his bedroom, slamming the door closed, leaving a confused John staring after him not for the first time that day.

He had some thinking to do, but he wasn't sure that he could sort out his thoughts sat in the living room under John's scrutiny. John would surely want to know where Sherlock had been, and he was not in the mood for such mundane questions. _Boring._ He knew John wouldn't bother calling after him when he was in one of these moods.

As he lay on the bed, his heart pounded. He could hear his pulse thumping in his ears and feel the blood rushing through his veins. He took a few deep, calming breaths and attempted to collect his thoughts. He spent time trying to rationalise his feelings.

Why did he feel this way?

John was his friend? Sherlock wasn't sure, but he thought that the _'relationship'_ between them (he used the word carefully, even in his head) fell into the category of friends.

Not having had any previous experiences with friendship, aside from the semi-professional/semi-friendship he had with Greg, Sherlock wondered if his confusing feelings were normal.

Maybe he was making too much of it. Perhaps all friends felt this way and just the newness of it had intensified the effect for Sherlock?

He frowned and closed his eyes. _No, that's not what this is,_ he thought. This is something else. Something _more_. He knew he was trying to convince himself that this was just the way friends felt, but that wasn't right at all.

Maybe he should discuss this with John?

John had never judged him in the past. He was tolerant and patient with Sherlock, far more so than anybody else in Sherlock's life. John had listened and helped before, when Sherlock had been confused by his feelings or how he should be acting. John was sensible and rational to Sherlock's impulsive. John would have the answers.

Except he couldn't ask John about this. He couldn't say _"John, I feel this way about you",_ could he?

How would his flatmate; friend; colleague feel about Sherlock telling him that every time he walked into the room, he felt the compulsion to touch him; to hold him; to never let him go?

How would straight; not gay; _'not his date' _John feel about that?

Sherlock thought back to where he'd been that afternoon.

Yes, there was only one way to deal with this.

He jumped up from the bed and began to plan it out.


	6. Chapter 5

_**This chapter contains drug use. Consider yourselves warned.**_

* * *

By the time Sherlock woke the following morning, John had already left for work. A note on the sofa indicated that he would be at the surgery until around 7pm.

Sherlock pushed down the lump in his throat as he realised he wouldn't see John until late: an action that only served as a reminder of why he had plans today.

He quickly looked around the flat. He'd expected to be forced to use the bedroom, but now, in John's absence, he was free to do it anywhere.

Deciding the sofa was as good a place as any, he slipped into his bedroom, emerging minutes later with a small, ornate box.

Shiny black ebony with inlaid ivory depicting an Oriental lakeside scene, trimmed inside with soft navy velvet with silk edgings - a present from Mummy when Sherlock was a teen. She had come across it on her travels in China and thought Sherlock would like it. She figured he would use it to store something treasured. Little did she know. He stroked the box fondly, closing his eyes to the nostalgia that came with it.

He started making his preparations. A ritual, if you like. He closed the heavy curtains against the morning glare and London street noise, and he cleared the coffee table of everything except the box. Carefully, he opened it and removed a large blood-red square of velvet. He delicately laid the fabric on the coffee table and started to lay the box's precious contents out.

He prepared the drug with well-rehearsed precision. It was almost as if he had never stopped. Something one never forgot. _"Like riding a bicycle"_, he thought morosely.

With the drug prepared, he slowly drew it into the syringe, pressing the plunger slightly and flicking the end a few times to remove the air. With the syringe ready, he removed a candle from the box. A small round candle in a rich deep purple, held by an antique silver holder. The candle holder had been another gift. He closed his eyes at the memory of that gift-giver. He wasn't sure when or why the candle had become part of his ritual, he only knew that he needed it.

Placing the candle down on the coffee table, he lit it and removed the tourniquet from the box. More practised ease had him bringing up a vein in little time at all.

Settling himself on the worn sofa, took a long breath as he slowly pushed the plunger.

This. This would fix him. This would make sense of his emotions; his thoughts; his feelings; his... desires.

He needed this more than anything.

_No_, a small voice argued, _you need John more than anything else._

The voice was right, but that was why Sherlock needed to do this.

He might need John, but he couldn't have John. John would never feel the same way about Sherlock.

Straight, doctor, soldier John could never love Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

As the drug started to take effect, Sherlock found himself lifted. Higher and higher. Away from 221B; away from London, away from John.

He'd always loved the soaring effect that cocaine had on his brain.

Where a clean, sober Sherlock's mind was wild; racing; frantic; genius, when he used, his mind would still: not silent but surveying; experiencing control and calm.

Under the influence of cocaine, Sherlock found relief. Relief from his own mind; relief from his emotions; relief from his turmoil; relief from... life.

He just let... him... self... go.

It was... perfect.


	7. Chapter 6

By the time John arrived home from the surgery, Sherlock had 221B back to looking its usual, chaotic self. Magazines lay haphazardly over the coffee table where the red cloth had once laid, and the curtains were only closed against the darkening London skies.

"You look better." John remarked, seeing Sherlock sat at the desk, casually entering notes onto his laptop. "Tea?"

He didn't, of course, wait for a response. Instead he went straight to the kitchen cupboard and removed two mugs before filling and flicking on the kettle.

Sherlock glanced towards the kitchen after John. "I don't suppose you've eaten?" John enquired, popping his head around the doorway to find Sherlock looking in his direction. Sherlock shook his head. He hadn't even felt remotely hungry - another effect of the cocaine, he knew.

"Bit late to cook now", John continued, not really mindful of Sherlock's response. "I could order in some Chinese?"

Sherlock didn't really want to eat, but he acquiesced anyway. At least with a take-away, he could eat as little or as much as he wanted, without too much scrutiny.

"I'll ring it through", he replied, knowing John would over-order. "Busy day at work?"

John gave Sherlock one of those _"I know you would never have asked anybody that before you met me"_ looks, along with a genuine smile. "Not bad", he responded. "Nothing serious. Nothing deadly. Probably quite boring by Sherlock Holmes' standards, I'm sure." he continued with a wink before turning back to the kitchen to finish the teas.

Sherlock let out a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He was feeling better. Calmer; more relaxed; less anxious; less emotional; more... normal.

He reached for the take-away menu and rang through their order.

The following morning, Sherlock was up early. The relative calming effect of the cocaine - _funny,_ he thought, _how a drug known for its stimulating properties acted almost the opposite way for Sherlock Holmes_ - had enabled Sherlock to sleep quite restfully for the first time in some weeks. He'd been drowsy after eating, gone to bed not long after and only awoken when the sound of John moving in the kitchen had roused him.

"Morning, Sleepyhead." John chuckled as Sherlock's swept into the kitchen: all ruffled hair and swirling blue robe. He pulled a second mug out of the cupboard and poured another coffee, handing it to Sherlock who had seated himself at the kitchen table. "Toast?" he enquired, knowing the detective probably wouldn't want to eat after last night's meal.

Sherlock took a long drink from his mug and shook his head. He definitely couldn't stomach more food. _Not this week _, he thought. "Not working today, Doctor?" he asked casually.

Sherlock wasn't yet sure how much a grip he had on himself this morning, but the fact that John was still in his pyjamas and robe indicated that he probably wasn't going anywhere early today.

John refilled his coffee mug, grabbed his toast and took the seat opposite Sherlock. "Not today." He took a bite of toast and passed his mobile phone across to Sherlock. "Lestrade messaged earlier. New lead in the basement murder case. They want to know if you can go to the station and just give their suspect the once over?"

Sherlock looked at the message from Greg, nodding. He was feeling up to that, he decided. Yesterday's hit had given him some relief which seemed to be continuing so far, so he quickly sent a reply back _"1pm at NSY - SH"_ and headed to his bedroom to get ready.

Emerging a while later, showered and dressed, Sherlock looked ready for action.

"You almost look excited about it." John commented, as Sherlock breezed out of the kitchen and grabbed his Belstaff and scarf from the rack.

Sherlock barely stopped to answer. "Of course! It's a puzzle! It's all about the puzzles! You coming?" he added, almost as an afterthought, as if he was suddenly worried that John wouldn't be joining him.

John pulled his coat from the rack and nodded. "Sure thing," he replied before adding absently, "but I can't be late back. I have a date with Sarah tonight." John didn't notice Sherlock had stopped in his tracks, as he breezed past the detective at the top of the stairs and made his way down to hail a taxi.

Sherlock stood on the landing. Still. Silent.

John has a date?

John has a date!

He suddenly felt as though something had taken hold of him, shaking him violently, squeezing the all the air out of him and ripping his heart right out of his chest.


	8. Chapter 7

Sherlock had wrapped up the case at New Scotland Yard within minutes, deducing the life out of the suspect and providing irrefutable evidence of his guilt.

As they returned home to Baker Street, John headed straight to his room to prepare for his date.

_John has a date_, Sherlock ran over and over in his head.

It riled him how much he was affected by this fact. He'd been fine this morning. Calmer; his emotions tempered; in control.

It was like yesterday's escape from reality had given him a wake up call and everything would be okay - until John dropped the bombshell.

_John has a date with Sarah._

The thought crashed through his head, worming its way into ever corner of his brain until he could think of nothing else.

The shower clicked on in the bathroom and disturbed his concentration. Sherlock frowned. Why was he so easily distracted? How did _John Watson_ have the power to distract him?

He needed his Mind Palace.

John emerged from his room some time later, all clean, shaved and dressed for his date.

"Right, Sherlock." he started, pulling his coat from the rack, "I don't know what time I'll be back. I might not be back tonight at all." He gave a suggestive wink to Sherlock who barely noticed him speaking, let alone anything else. He was laid out on the worn sofa, fingers steepled beneath his chin, not asleep - aware but deliberately paying little attention.

"Don't wait up!" John shouted, and he turned and exited the flat.

As soon as he heard the outside door of 221B close, Sherlock shot up from the sofa. He began pacing across the living floor. Window to door to window to door. Muttering to himself. He needed to control himself; control this; he was losing himself.

He stopped pacing and chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully.

It had worked once...

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was once more sat on the sofa. The curtains were pulled closed; the small coffee table was cleared, red velvet was smoothed over it; ornate black and ivory box and antique silver candle holder in their places.

Sherlock lit the rich purple candle, watching the flame dance. It was beautiful; hypnotic almost.

In a few short moments, Sherlock closed his eyes as the drug began to flow through his system. He had created a slightly more potent mixture this time, hoping for a longer-lasting effect, and the result was a much quicker hit.

He groaned with pleasure as his mind cleared of all thoughts of anxiety, frustration and John.

A second later - or maybe minutes or an hour, who knew? - Sherlock's eyes flew open. His lungs felt full; tight; restricted, and his heart felt erratic and racing.

The groan that Sherlock emitted at this time was anything but pleasurable.

"Sherlock!" Greg shouted as he mounted the stairs of Baker Street. John had mentioned that he himself wouldn't be in this evening, but Greg needed to get clarification of something Sherlock had said before he could wrap up this basement murder case.

He pushed open the door to 221B and frowned as his eyes had to adjust to the dim lighting. He noticed a candle flicker on the coffee table, almost burnt out, and reached to flick on the lights.

Nothing prepared Greg for what he saw next.

Without thinking twice, he reached for his phone.

"Mycroft Holmes", a voice announced from the other end.

"Mycroft", Greg began. _Must calm down_, he thought to himself. His heart was pounding in his chest. Sherlock looked... lifeless.

"Mycroft, you'd better get over here to Baker Street. And send some medical staff urgently." he added, almost as an afterthought, knowing that Mycroft would need to see Sherlock, but Sherlock also would need medical help.

"Gregory?" Mycroft enquired, confused by the instruction. He hadn't needed to respond to any sort of Sherlock emergencies for quite some time. Gregory Lestrade had played no small part in ensuring Sherlock's previous recovery from addiction, and the drill had become unfamiliar to the elder Holmes.

"It's Sherlock." Greg clarified. "I don't know what he's taken but he's..." he trailed off, unable to finish. God, he looked so... pale.

"We'll be there very shortly, Gregory." Mycroft informed him, "Please stay with him." A soft click indicated he was gone.

There was nothing Greg could do now except wait. He didn't want to call John. Sherlock wouldn't want that, and Greg wasn't sure whether Mycroft would want Sherlock's drug problem - whether past or present - exposed to the doctor.

Gregory did the only thing he could do. He slid himself underneath Sherlock's head on the sofa and cradled it in his arms until help could arrive.


	9. Chapter 8

Medical staff had arrived at Baker Street within 5 minutes of Greg's call to Mycroft.

Greg met them at the door and guided them up to Sherlock, leaving them to do their thing while he waited for Mycroft.

The elder Holmes' black town car pulled up ten more minutes later.

Greg was standing outside 221B, puffing on a desperately needed cigarette.

Discovering Sherlock there, laid on the sofa, eyes blank, skin pale, had made him feel edgy. He was breathing, and he had a pulse, but he looked so...

His hand shook as he drew in a long pull of nicotine.

Seeing Mycroft's car, he dropped the cigarette to the pavement, stamping it out. Mycroft climbed out of the car, nodding his greeting to Greg and pushing the front door open. Greg followed him up the stairs in silence and stood in the living room doorway as Mycroft entered to talk to the medics.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked calmly. Greg studied Mycroft's demeanour. He was anything but calm himself, and he pondered how on earth Mycroft managed to hold himself together, seeing his little brother that way.

The soft beeps of a heart monitor, steady and reassuring, filled the small living room. Sherlock was breathing on his own, and colour seemed to be returning to his pallid skin, but neither Greg nor Mycroft could see, from their doorway position, if Sherlock had awoken yet. They could see however that nobody had moved any of Sherlock's drug paraphernalia from the coffee table. Greg frowned at the collection of items there.

One of the medics stood, leaving the other two to deal with Sherlock. "He's stable." he informed them. "His oxygen sats are up now and his pulse is strong and regular. He's conscious, if you want to see him?"

Greg made to move across to where Sherlock was laid on the floor, but Mycroft raised a hand across his chest, halting his movement.

"In a moment, Doctor, thank you. Were you planning to admit him?"

The doctor thought for a moment before answering. "We should," he began, "but I suspect you are going to request otherwise?"

Greg shook his head. Surely Mycroft wouldn't go against medical recommendation? He glanced across at Sherlock who appeared to be getting agitated, batting away the arm of a poor nurse who was trying to examine him.

"Doctor, I would prefer it if we didn't." Mycroft replied in that dignified _"I know you won't argue with me"_ tone. "And I am fairly sure that my brother will not wish to be moved either."

He now had his eyes fixed on Sherlock and the commotion he was causing in the living room. Mycroft glanced briefly at Greg who nodded and entered the living room, crossing to Sherlock who was now trying to sit up.

"Detective Inspector", Sherlock was slurring his words slightly, as if he hadn't quite woken fully yet, "please inform these _'people'_ that I have absolutely no intention of accompanying them to hospital."

Greg sighed. Any attempts to persuade Sherlock otherwise were futile really. He knew that. He guessed Mycroft knew that too which is why he had said as much to the doctor.

Greg squatted down next to Sherlock, his eyes raking over the improved-but-still-pale body of his friend, checking him for... for what? He wasn't sure. Just relieved he was alive (and clearing 'kicking'!).

"It's ok, Sherlock." he reassured him. "You can stay here, but I suspect there'll be some ground rules."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked over to Mycroft. Of course there'd be ground rules with Mycroft involved. He crinkled his nose as he frowned.

"What's my brother doing here?"

Greg lowered his eyes, guiltily and fiddled with his jacket cuffs.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know what else to do. When I came in and found you... you were... I didn't know who else to call. I knew you wouldn't want to go to A&E... Why, Sherlock? After all this time..."

Greg stopped abruptly as he felt Sherlock place a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry, Greg." was all that Sherlock could respond before Mycroft made his way over, accompanied by the doctor.

"Sherlock," Mycroft nodded to his brother.

A silent conversation flowed between them. _"You were lucky this time." "I'm sorry." "I know." _

Greg felt like an intruder in the room, an eavesdropper despite there being no words to eavesdrop.

The silence was broken by the doctor clearing his throat. All eyes turned to him as he consulted a notepad.

"Your brother has recovered well, it seems, Mr Holmes." he addressed Mycroft, much to Sherlock's disgust as the younger Holmes tutted and shook his head, slowly moving himself to the sofa, having been relieved of the monitors and wires that had previously kept him on the floor. "I believe he is okay to stay here, but somebody should stay with him for the next 24 hours, in case he develops any other symptoms or effects of the..." he paused, unsure whether to actually name the poison.

"I'll stay." Greg volunteered without hesitation. John would be out for at least another few hours, and Greg knew that he may not even make it back to Baker Street at all tonight, if his date went well.

Mycroft looked at Greg questioningly. Greg nodded. "I've had experience dealing with drug addicts", he continued, wincing at the realisation that he had all-but referred to Sherlock as an addict. Sherlock's eyes fell to his lap, but he said nothing. "More importantly", Greg added, "I've had experience dealing with Sherlock."

Mycroft could hardly argue with that. If anybody could handle Sherlock in this condition, it was Gregory.

"Thank you, Gregory." he replied, eyes filled with gratitude and smiling at the Detective Inspector. "It means a lot."

Greg stood as the medical staff readied themselves to leave, their equipment packed away and their patient clearly returning to his normal self.

As a nurse came over to do a final check on Sherlock, Greg took the opportunity to accompany Mycroft to the door.

"I'll speak with him, Mycroft." he spoke softly, as they slowly descended the stairs. "I have no idea what has got into him. He's been clean for so long. Maybe he'll open up to me."

Greg found himself waffling, clearly still affected by the whole thing.

As they reached the pavement outside 221b , Mycroft stopped and turned to Greg. He took one of Greg's hands in his own and held it firmly. It wasn't a handshake. Definitely not a handshake. It was almost something else. Something more. Something... intimate.

"Gregory," he started, not quite stuttering but not quite sounding his usual confident self either. "I appreciate all that you have done and continue to do for us. I cannot thank you enough."

Greg looked into Mycroft's eyes, seeing only sincerity in his heartfelt thanks. He nodded, slightly stunned by the effect that the man's words had on him.


	10. Chapter 9

As Greg re-entered the living room at 221b, Sherlock was laid flat on the sofa, his hands crossed loosely in his lap and his eyes staring at the ceiling above him.

Greg closed his eyes briefly at the scene that looked so reminiscent of the scene he had walked in on seemingly moments before. The usually gangly, long-limbed detective looked small and frail, like a lost child.

"Sherlock?" he spoke, quietly, pulling himself together. He wouldn't be much use to Sherlock if he couldn't keep himself calm. At Sherlock's lack of response, Greg slowly approached the sofa. His eyes were drawn to the items on the coffee table. They had been slightly disturbed when the coffee table was moved (medics had pushed the table aside when they moved Sherlock on to the floor to treat him). The red velvet cloth was ruffled up, the candle, which Greg had blown out soon after finding Sherlock, was sat askew in the silver holder and the box lid was closed.

Greg did notice that the hypodermic needle itself was now absent, he assumed taken by the medical staff.

He turned to Sherlock, giving him a long, sad questioning look. Sherlock shrugged and sat forward, collecting the items from the coffee table and carefully placing them back into the black and ivory box. Closing the lid silently, he stroked the top of the box, looking at it longingly, like it pained him to do so.

He lifted the box and passed it to Greg.

Greg swallowed round a lump in his throat. Twice.

"Why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sat back on the sofa, moving to one side, allowing Greg to sit next to him. As Greg sat, Sherlock let out a long sigh and his breathing began to quicken and shallow.

"You okay?" Greg asked, his worried face scanning Sherlock for any returning signs of drug effects. His eyes looked glazed slightly but his pupils seemed normal. His breathing didn't seem laboured, it was more as though he was...

Was Sherlock Holmes crying?

"Sherlock?" Greg asked again, placing a hand softly on the taller man's arm. "What is it?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took another deep breath. This one more controlled, calming. He could talk to Greg, couldn't he? Greg was his friend. Greg had known him since the early days of his addiction. Greg knew everything about Sherlock. The best and the worst. Greg was one person in the world he could trust absolutely.

_Yes,_ he decided, he could talk to Greg. But what did he say? How could he possibly broach the subject? Did Gregory Lestrade know anything about how it feels to be in love with a man? He was married - albeit not happily. But what help could he be? How on earth did he even begin to talk about it?

"I'm in love with John." he blurted out.

Oh. Well, that'd do it.

Sherlock slumped back on the sofa, curling his knees to his chest and resting his head on them.

"You're what?" Greg blinked. Sherlock just gave him an _"I know you heard me" _ look and huffed.

"I mean, I know what you said," Greg began to justify his shocked reaction; "it's just... really? You and John? It's... well, I had no idea! I mean, guys talk, you know. He's never said anything to me. I know people make jokes and comments and stuff but... I had no idea you two were... "

"No, Greg. Not John and me." Sherlock cut him off, taking another breath before finishing. "Just me."

His voice sounded timid; gravelly; sad.

He buried his head in his knees as Greg's hand dropped from Sherlock's arm.

"Ah." The penny dropped. "Oh." Greg was clearly quite lost for words. "I see."

"So all this?" he motioned at the box, which was sat in his own lap, "This is what?"

Sherlock looked up at Greg. "Me trying to forget." he answered as if it was the most natural and obvious answer in the world, and he dropped his head down again.

"Forget?" Greg wasn't getting it. "Why would you want to forget?" He stopped, pausing as if something had just dawned on him.

"Wait." he began. "Have you even _said_ anything to John?"

Sherlock sighed and lifted his head again.

He raised an eyebrow at Greg's ridiculous suggestion. _Say anything to John? _

"Tell me, Greg. How would you tell your straight, out-on-a-date-with-a-woman, definitely not gay friend that you are in love with him?"

"Oh God, Sherlock." Greg shook his head. He had no idea. He had just shared a 'moment' himself with one Mycroft Holmes and had no idea what to make of that. Mycroft was... whatever Holmeses are, and Greg was married but still, there'd been something. Some sort of a connection there. He found himself thinking about it as he sat there on the sofa with a desolate Sherlock Holmes. What a completely messed up situation this all was.

"Don't tell him." Sherlock muttered, quietly. "Please." he begged.

"Tell him? Of course not, Sherlock. It's not my place to tell him. You need to speak to him. Clear the air..."

"No." Sherlock stopped him. "I mean... don't tell him about the cocaine." He uncurled his legs, stretching them out in front of the sofa as he turned to look at Greg and then lowered his eyes to the box that the DI was still cradling in his lap. "He can't know about this." He laid his hand on the box lid, his eyes closing as if those actions alone calmed him.

Greg placed his hand on top of Sherlock's.

"Ah, right. No. Ok, I won't, of course. I suspect Mycroft doesn't wish John to know either." He wondered, not really sure of that but knowing how Holmes men are for keeping family issues under wraps.

"But Sherlock, you have to talk to him about... the other thing." Greg tipped his head to Sherlock's face, meeting him eye to eye. "You need to talk about this."

Sherlock nodded, laying his head against Greg's shoulder.

He was tired. So very tired.


	11. Chapter 10

When John had returned from Sarah's the following morning, he pretty much ran straight in, got ready for work and ran straight out again.

There was no sign of Sherlock in the flat, but John could see a small light on in his bedroom so he assumed the young detective was still asleep. He was completely unaware however that, alongside Sherlock's sleeping form in his bed, Greg Lestrade sat on an armchair, keeping watch.

As the door to 221B swung shut behind John, Sherlock stirred and Greg was ready with a glass of water. After Greg had led him to his bedroom and helped him undress, Sherlock had slept fairly soundly, and Greg knew from experience that he would wake feeling thirsty.

"Greg?" Sherlock muttered, half-asleep, trying to sit himself upright and reaching out an arm. His voice was gravelly and hoarse. He groaned and closed his eyes against the light on the dresser.

"I'm here, Sherlock." his friend replied, aiding Sherlock to lift his head and tipping the glass to his dry, chapped lips. Sherlock nodded gratefully. "How are you feeling this morning?" Greg asked, knowing that even though he'd slept well, Sherlock would feel the after effects of the previous evening.

Sherlock pushed himself into a sitting position, tipping his head back against the headboard. He stretched his arms experimentally and looked at Greg. The DI looked tired. Then again, he supposed he would do. He'd just spent all night keeping watching over Sherlock. Not answering the question, he nodded.

"Thank you." He couldn't think what else to say. "It was stupid but..." he paused, reaching a hand out and taking hold of one of Greg's, "Thank you."

Slowly, he slid back down onto the bed. He still felt so tired.

"John's been and gone." Greg felt the need to update Sherlock. At some point, he was bound to ask after the doctor. "He hasn't seen you though. Well, hasn't seen _us._" he corrected. Greg had deliberately kept out of John's way, not wanting to have to explain his presence in the flat.

"Mycroft texted earlier. I told him you were still sleeping but you were doing better." Greg stopped, glancing across at Sherlock who still had hold of his hand but was obviously falling asleep. "You had us worried, Sherlock." he said softly. The grip on his hand tightened slightly and then slackened off again. Gradually, Greg could hear Sherlock's breathing slow and steady as he drifted off.

Greg freed his hand carefully and lay back in the chair. He had a few hours before John would be back. Time for a kip himself.

That evening, John came home to an empty flat.

When Greg had woken up, Sherlock was in the bathroom and, having showered, announced that he wanted to see Mycroft. Greg, knowing that was a request that Sherlock would rarely, if ever, make, sent a message to Mycroft requesting that he send a car.

The car dropped Greg off at home and then continued on to Mycroft's flat.

So, when John returned from work, 221B was quiet. He grabbed his mobile from his coat pocket and called Greg.

"Hmmm?" a sleepy voice groaned. John laughed.

"Greg?"

"Oh yeh. Sorry, John. Didn't see it was your number, mate. What's up?" Greg frowned, hoping he wasn't about to be asked any tricky questions that would require him to avoid answering or to be dishonest.

"Sherlock's gone to see Mycroft." John started. Greg had insisted that Sherlock leave a note for John, explaining that he was going to his brother's and would be back later that evening. Sherlock had bitched and moaned about it, but he had done it anyway. "No doubt he has been summoned for something of national importance." John added, and Greg could almost hear the doctor rolling his eyes.

_If only he knew_, he thought.

John rummaged in the kitchen for a tea bag and flicked on the kettle.

"I was wondering if you fancied going out for a drink tonight?" he continued as he poured his brew.

Greg rubbed at his face. He hadn't had much sleep in the past 36 hours, but he certainly could use a drink and some stress-free company for a couple of hours.

"Sounds good, mate." he responded, sniffing his clothes, trying to gauge if he needed to change or shower or both. He decided definitely both. "Give me an hour or so. Say 8 o'clock? Meet at the usual?" He stood and headed to the bathroom.

"Great." John answered, "See you then." and he hung up, heading to get ready himself.

Greg arrived at the pub just after 8pm, and John had already got two pints on the table.

"Cheers mate." Greg acknowledged, too easily downing almost half his pint in one swallow.

He groaned and leant back on the chair.

"Tough day?" John enquired. He hadn't seen Greg since they'd been at New Scotland Yard the previous afternoon, but he was under the impression that the case they had been working on was all tied up and done with now. Still, the Detective Inspector looked overly tired and stressed. He watched as Greg absently drew lines along the condensation that formed on the outside of his glass.

"Something like that." Greg eventually responded with a chuckle. "Anyway, glad to be out. It's been a while since we unwound with a few beers."

"Yeah." John's eyes dropped to the table, and he began flipping a beermat over and over in his fingers. "It has. I've been working more hours. And, of course, there's Sarah."

Greg looked up at John who was still worrying the mat, folding over the worn edges and fraying layers in the cardboard.

Sarah. Right. Yes. Sarah. Of course.

"I'm worried about Sherlock." John looked up at Greg and added suddenly. "He's been very... distracted. Distant. Something. I dunno..." he trailed off. Not really sure how to describe the feeling he'd been getting from his flatmate over the past few days.

Greg saw the worried frown form on John's face as he spoke about Sherlock, and he tried to keep his own passive; unknowing.

John continued "He seemed a bit off at the basement crime scene, I noticed that. But when we came to the Yard yesterday... " John shook his head. "I don't know." he sighed, slumping back into his own chair and taking a long swig of his rapidly-warming beer.

"Have you talked to him?" Greg asked, knowing full well he hadn't, but it seemed like the obvious suggestion - for an outsider, at least.

John let out a soft chuckle. "Sherlock doesn't really do _talking_, does he? He is the master of not talking, in fact." He shrugged his shoulders. Getting Sherlock to talk about anything he didn't want to talk about was near on impossible. He chuckled to himself again. _Funny then,_ he thought, _how he also doesn't know how to shut up once he's started, even when he should!_

"I know, mate." Greg nodded, knowing. "Maybe, this time... if it's something important... he will."

John drained his pint and turned to the bar for a new one.

"Yeah." he hummed, "maybe."


	12. Chapter 11

Sherlock was curled on the sofa when John arrived home from his evening out with Greg. He'd tolerated his brother for the minimum length of time required to ensure that John would be out when he returned.

After their discussion about Sherlock during the evening, conversation between the doctor and Greg had become stilted. They had finished their second pints in an awkward silence, neither really sure what to say next. Greg was holding so many secrets that he just couldn't speak at all, and John... well, John's thoughts were just concentrated on Sherlock.

He was sure something was wrong, but he was also sure that Sherlock would not talk to him.

Worry and frustration filled him equally and, quite honestly, he just wanted to go home.

Greg, of course, wasn't oblivious to the change in atmosphere between them and so, after they had finished their second pints, he made his excuses and left.

John followed soon after, returning to Baker Street rather earlier than either man had anticipated.

As John entered the living room at 221B, Sherlock raised his head to meet John's concerned eyes.

"What?" the detective asked defensively. He hated it when John went out drinking with Greg. Invariably, the conversation turned to Sherlock and he disliked being the topic of anybody's alcohol-fuelled discussion.

"Sherlock." John began. He didn't actually know what he was going to say. He had no idea how to even begin to ask Sherlock what was bothering him.

John knew full well that Sherlock didn't discuss such things.

Sentiment. Feelings. Emotions.

_Boring! _

John could hear Sherlock's response before he had even asked a question.

He decided to start with something simpler.

"Tea?" he asked, completely ignoring the situation for now. Tea would make it easier. It's a starting point. A unifier.

Sherlock spun himself around to sitting on the sofa and, for once - and this wasn't lost on John - nodded.

"Yes, please, John."

John turned to the kitchen returning just a few minutes later with 2 cups of tea and, knowing Sherlock would not have eaten, a plate of Mrs Hudson's fruit scones.

Sherlock took his tea gratefully and, ignoring the plate, rested back on the sofa.

John glanced, momentarily, between his own armchair and the space on the sofa next to Sherlock as he pondered which seat to occupy.

He didn't want it to seem as though he was detached from Sherlock by sitting in his armchair, but he also didn't want him to feel crowded or uncomfortable.

John frowned, realising that such a minor decision as where to sit could be pivotal in the outcome of the conversation.

After what felt like an eternally long few minutes, John placed his tea on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa.

Little point in stalling the inevitable.

"Sherlock." John cleared his throat. This was going to be harder than he thought. Sherlock was cradling his tea cup in his hands, keeping his eyes on the ribbons of steam flowing out of it. He didn't look at John when he spoke to him, but he did grunt an acknowledgement.

_Right then_, John thought, _let's do this._

He took a calming swig of his hot tea before continuing. "Something is bothering you."

_Obvious!_ He was hearing Sherlock's unspoken response again.

It remained unspoken however. Another confirmation that something wasn't right.

Sherlock's gaze didn't falter from its fixation on the tea. Soft white swirls of steam rising higher and higher before vanishing into the air of 221B.

He felt a strong urge to be that steam right now.

Here was his chance. John was here. John was talking to him; asking him; worried; his friend.

Could he talk about this with John? _Should_ he?

He wondered briefly whether this sudden display closeness and concern had been prompted by something Greg had said to John at the pub. Did Greg say something? Would he?

Sherlock didn't think so, but he certainly couldn't be sure. He decided that really it didn't matter. For whatever reason, John was asking, and Sherlock still hadn't answered.

He took a long drink of his tea and placed his mug back on the table.

"I..." he faltered, unsure what he had actually intended his next words to be. "I'm just tired."

He flopped back against the worn leather and sighed.

_Couldn't do it then _, said a voice inside his head.

He sighed again and closed his eyes, hoping to silence the voice.

Another long minute passed before Sherlock heard John replace his cup on the coffee table. He resisted his urge to open his eyes and see what the doctor was going to do next, but they flew open in alarm when what he was aware of was a hand on his arm.

A hand. John's hand. John was touching him.

OK, so it wasn't the first time they had made physical contact with each other. There had been many instances, in the heat of a crime scene; a chase; a drama, when the detective had pulled along his blogger, or when the good doctor had ushered away his flatmate, but this... this was something else.

Something different.

For Sherlock, at least.

It was burning fire and freezing ice. It was both torture and bliss. It was heaven and hell.

A million thoughts raced through his brilliant mind, each more chaotic than the last. What? Why? How? Should? Can't. No.

No. Not now. Not like this.

Sherlock flew up off the sofa and rounded the coffee table. _Have to get away._

"Sherlock" John started, surprised at the reaction. He knew Sherlock didn't really appreciate people invading his personal space, but he was his friend. He had just meant it as a placating gesture; a signal of concern. "Sorry, I just... I didn't think... I was just worried."

Sherlock could feel his heart racing as he dashed into his bedroom, slamming the door in a movement that had almost all of 221B clattering and rattling.

Flinging himself on his bed, he fought for control.

_Calm,_ he thought, _stay calm. _

It's just John. It's just... John.

There was no _'just John'_ though.

John wasn't _just_ anything.

John was _everything._

Sherlock took a long, deep, grounding breath and closed his eyes.

Emotion was exhausting.

He was tired. So very, very tired.


	13. Chapter 12

Sherlock had quickly fallen into a dreamless sleep while John had remaining in the living room, staring at the empty space that Sherlock had previously occupied.

He sighed and slumped back onto the sofa. Clearly he wasn't going to get anywhere by trying to talk to Sherlock. Greg didn't seem to know anything. Maybe Mycroft..? He cut off that thought before he even finished it.

Partly because he couldn't imagine talking to Mycroft about his concerns with Sherlock and partly because he couldn't imagine for one moment that the elder Holmes would even have the faintest idea of what was wrong.

Sherlock had claimed he was just tired, but they hadn't had many cases lately, and John wasn't aware that Sherlock was working on anything particularly strenuous.

Coupled with the fact that the younger Holmes rarely slept anyway, deeming it unimportant and unnecessary, his 'tired' excuse was flimsy at best.

Sherlock seemed... emotional? John frowned. That couldn't be right.

Maybe something had happened that Sherlock just couldn't talk to him about but somebody must surely know something.

Mrs Hudson would have mentioned if she knew anything. So would Molly.

John thought back to the evening with Greg. He didn't seem to be acting strangely or as if he knew something.

What was it Greg had said to him about Sherlock opening up?

_"Maybe, this time... if it's something important... he will."_

Maybe it really was nothing important.

Perhaps it was John himself who was working too hard and making a big deal out of something that wasn't there.

He shook his head. He actually was starting to feel tired now. He'd had a long day at work. Two patients had needed referring urgently to the local hospital - suspected food poisoning - and he had spent too much time doing paperwork for his liking. He had another long day tomorrow.

He headed to bed, giving one last long look at Sherlock's bedroom door as he placed the tea mugs in the sink.

Sherlock woke late the following morning to yet another empty flat.

As he stumbled into the kitchen, a note on the kitchen table informed him that John was working and wouldn't be home until about 7pm.

_Again?_

Sherlock sighed and wandered through to the living room. Pulling his robe around him, he picked up his violin and began to play. He stood by the window for a long while, just watching the hustle and bustle of Baker Street as he played.

_All those vacant minds: drones,_ Sherlock thought.

Did they know? Could they possibly understand?

Mindless worker ants going about their daily business without giving it a second thought. Work; home; eat; sleep; and repeat ad infinitum.

The pace of his music quickened to reflect the ordered chaos of life in London.

_How dull!_

Sherlock, despite the arduousness of his racing superior mind, had never once wanted that life.

A life of routine; of order; of... normality.

He supposed that had been John's life once. Before he became a blogger; a crime fighter; before Sherlock.

His mind moved away from the cityscape and wrapped itself around 221B.

Music changed tempo: soft; flowing; melodic.

Sherlock looked around him, pacing as he played, taking in the scene around him. His home. Their home.

Little bits of John Watson injected into Sherlock's every day life.

Medical journals on the book shelves.

Two laptops on the desk.

Two tea cups in the sink.

Food in the refrigerator.

Wax jacket on the coat stand.

Cane abandoned, unneeded, against the fireplace.

His bow stuttered and he missed a note.

"Dammit!" he cursed loudly, flinging the violin down on the sofa.

Sherlock's life was better with John in it.

John was order to Sherlock's chaos.

Yet this... this _thing_ that Sherlock was trying to deal with would threaten all that.

Eventually, one day, Sherlock would do something and John would know.

John would find out and then he would leave.

John Watson would leave him.

The thought made Sherlock's stomach roil.

If he couldn't tell John then he would just have to find another way to make the feelings go away.

Greg had taken all of Sherlock's drug paraphernalia. The box, the cloth, the candles. All of it.

He picked up the violin again and began to slowly string together an improvised melody to help him think.

A few minutes later, he picked up his phone, knowing exactly who to call.


	14. Chapter 13

Late afternoon found Sherlock stepping out of a taxi in an area of town he really hadn't expected to find himself in ever again.

Autumn grey clouds shadowed overhead, making everywhere seem prematurely dark, and there was a disquieting ambience all around.

He scanned for CCTV and, finding none, decided to carry on. He really didn't need Mycroft butting in on his business.

As he walked through the winding streets, it got gradually less busy and less welcoming.

Glancing briefly down at the slip of paper in his hand, Sherlock squinted, trying to see building numbers in the dim light.

Number 97 - this was it. His eyes darted up and down the road, assessing it for possible threats. There were few people about. A group of youths drinking on a nearby bench and a couple of passing cars - _lost,_ he wondered, _or cruising?_ It was too early for the working girls to be in circulation yet but he supposed it didn't stop people from looking.

He adjusted his coat and scarf, closing himself in, detaching himself - it was something of a security thing for him - before raising his hand and pushing open the outer door. As he stepped inside, a tall, bald, surly-looking man stepped forwards.

"Name?" he barked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but resisted the urge to deduce, must less remark on it. He knew better. He wouldn't get what he wanted here by being a smart arse. That much he did know.

"Holmes." he replied calmly before adding, "Jay sent me."

Surly guy tipped his head in the direction of the stairs. "Second floor. Flat F."

Sherlock nodded his thanks and began his climb.

His heart was thrumming so loud that he was sure everybody in the street would hear it.

He'd scored his last cocaine, just a few days previously, as a repaid favour, from somebody in the homeless network, so he hadn't had to come to a place like this.

Places like this made him on guard; anxious; wary.

They were a reminder of days gone by. The days when his life revolved solely around cocaine and getting his next fix.

When his thoughts, from morning through evening - or evening through to morning - consisted only of how to get money; to get cocaine; to get high.

Times when he would do anything.

An involuntary shudder ran through him as he was momentarily transported back to right there and then. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He needed to focus. He just needed to do this and get out.

As he reached the second floor, he turned to flat F. Giving the door five firm taps, he stood back and waited.

"Name?" another surly-looking guy demanded. Was there an assembly line for these minions? Sherlock rolled his eyes, fortunately unseen by surly guy number two who was checking the hallway for anybody else who might be approaching.

The young Holmes cleared his throat before answering. "Holmes." he repeated. "Jay sent me."

_Predictable. Boring._ He hated repetition. _Necessary Evil._

Surly guy 2 nodded and opened the door, waving Sherlock inside.

He made no effort to hide the fact that he was looking Sherlock up and down, assessing him.

"Yeah. He mentioned you." he eventually replied. "You got the money then?"

"Of course." Sherlock responded, and he pulled out the roll of notes from his inner pocket.

He moved further into the room as he looked around the poky flat. Not much furniture. A couple of chairs, a battered old sofa, a table and a few mattresses. He noticed 2 further doorways. One which he guessed led to a kitchen and another which probably led to a bedroom and bathroom.

Surly counted the money, warily, and moved behind him, sliding a lock closed on the door.

"Just to be safe." he answered to Sherlock's unspoken question. "Don't like interruptions while doing a deal. Had some bad experiences lately with people being tailed by coppers 'n' suchlike."

Sherlock suddenly felt relieved that he had managed to avoid being tracked by his brother's cronies. He nodded, understandingly.

Surly ducked into one of the other rooms, re-emerging moments later with a packet.

"Jay said you should have the decent stuff." he started, passing the package over to Sherlock. "You guys go way back, yeah?"

They sure did. It wasn't something Sherlock cared to think about much, and he certainly never spoke about _those days_ any more.

Unfortunately though, for Sherlock, the impact of that time of his life had been so great that he'd been unable to lock it away in his Mind Palace so it stayed there; in his memory; in the background; always just a trauma away from making its presence felt.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Jay and I were acquainted quite some time ago." he answered vaguely.

"Oh Sherly." a voice came as one of the other room's doors began to open behind him. Sherlock resisted the urge to turn around and look.

"Acquainted?" it queried. "We were surely more than mere _'acquaintances' _?"

Sherlock's heart stopped, and he forgot how to breath.

That voice. That smooth-as-silk Irish lilt.

The voice's owner waved his hand, dismissing 'Surly' who, after passing over the money, unlocked the flat door and let himself out.

Sherlock heard the door close again and the lock slide back into place.

The voice's owner then proceeded to close the distance on Sherlock. Stopping only when it pressed up tight against against his back, slipping an arm around Sherlock's waist; pulling him close as it purred in his ear.

"Sherlock Holmes." it said seductively. "Did you miss me?"

Sherlock swallowed around a lump in this throat before responding.

"Jim Moriarty."


	15. Chapter 14

_**Please note: **_

_I should forewarn, this is where it heads a little bit AU/non-canon with regards to Sherlock's past history with Jim Moriarty_

_Hope that isn't a problem._

* * *

**FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER**

The door to the library creaked open, alerting Sherlock that he was no longer alone.

He raised his eyes from the book he was reading but saw no one.

From his corner of the aisle end in the library, he couldn't see the door anyway so he supposed that whoever had come in would also be unable to see him.

He hoped they would just get what they wanted and leave quickly and quietly however he soon realised that this wouldn't be the case.

"Did you get it?" a hushed, nervous-sounding voice asked.

There were shuffling noises and the sound of two chairs moving, as people seated themselves, echoed conspicuously through the large expanse of the library.

_Two people then_, Sherlock realised with an eye roll.

"Of course, Sebby." a reply came. The soft, Irish lilt sounded completely calm and in control, in contrast to the evident nerves of the first speaker.

"You have the money?" the Irishman continued.

Sherlock frowned. What were these people doing?

He had expected them to be late-comers looking for study aids but clearly whatever was going on was much more underhanded.

He slid his chair out quietly and sneaked to the end of the aisle. He could just make out the shapes of the two men, seated in a corner, out of view of the main door.

_Students?_ he wondered. Impossible to tell from here, but he couldn't risk getting closer. Not without being seen.

Irish guy carried on talking; "It's fifty for the coke and forty-five for the charlie. And this isn't your ordinary street shit that you're getting here. This is proper high-grade stuff. Use it carefully."

The first guy - _Sebby?_ - grunted an acknowledgement and stood, fumbling as he rummaged in his coat pockets and counted out cash.

Clearly this guy was nervous. An amateur, Sherlock supposed. First-timer, perhaps. Or whatever those new to buying drugs were called.

Irish guy nodded to Sebby, taking the money and handing over two small packets. Sebby grabbed the packs, nervously stuffing them into his jacket and turning to leave.

As the door clicked closed behind him, Sherlock realised that the Irish guy hadn't left; hadn't moved, in fact.

He was still sat at the table, his back to Sherlock, doing something which Sherlock couldn't see.

"See anything you like?" the Irish voice floated across the library, startling Sherlock from his position in the aisle where he had been standing quiet and, he thought, unnoticed.

"Don't be shy." it continued, "we're all friends here." The Irishman stood and turned towards where Sherlock had been hiding. Sherlock, realising the futility of attempting to remain hidden at this point, stepped out from the aisle and into the main room, facing the Irishman who had now approached to within three feet.

Sherlock may have _looked_ confident however he far from felt it, and he really was not sure what to say to the person who he just seen dealing drugs on campus.

As it turned out, he didn't _need_ to say anything.

"Ahhh, the elusive Sherlock Holmes!" the Irishman took another step forwards, taking the stunned Sherlock's hand and shaking it firmly.

"I have heard _so_ much about you. Jim Moriarty." he offered. "It is my pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

Sherlock raked his eyes over the Irishman, taking in his confident, well-dressed manner. He was truly stunning to look at.

Realising that he hadn't responded, Sherlock collected his thoughts and pulled himself together.

"Indeed." he finally replied. "I fear my reputation precedes me?"

Jim Moriarty threw his head back and laughed.

"Quite. But don't let this little event bother you." he waved his arm about the library, referring to the dealings which Sherlock had so obviously been witness to. "This is purely business. You however... you are most definitely a pleasure." The Irish lilt purred out the word 'pleasure' and Sherlock felt Jim grab his hand more firmly.

"Come." he instructed. "I have something to show you."

Sherlock had no idea why he was following a drug dealer through the campus buildings. All he knew was that this man; this crazy Irishman; Jim Moriarty intrigued him. Aside from noting that he was well-educated, well-spoken and well-dressed, he had not managed to deduce much about the young man. He was a mystery and Sherlock Holmes _loved_ a mystery.

Jim finally stopped at a large dark oak door, unlocking it swiftly and signally for Sherlock to enter with him.

Sherlock stepped into what appeared to be a self-contained apartment, decorated lavishly with dark red velvet drapes and furnishings with purple accents.

He crossed to an ornate candle stand, which appeared to be positioned prominently in the room, and examined it studiously.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Jim whispered from almost right behind Sherlock. "The antique silver finish is a perfect contrast to the rich deep purple candles, don't you think, Sherlock?"

The Irishman gazed at Sherlock who was looking rather bemused at the arrangement. Jim hummed to himself quietly before suddenly asking,

"Tea?"

Sherlock blinked twice, processing the change of ambience in the room which had gone from intense to tea in under a second.

"Um, right. Yes, please." he responded. "Thank you."

A few minutes later, both men were sitting in opposite wing back chairs, cradling cups of tea.

"My father told me all about you, you know, Sherlock." the Irishman began. "The child genius, he called you. 'You must seek him out', he used to tell me. 'He's so like you, Jim', he would say. 'You must make friends' " Jim chuckled.

_Like me,_ Jim scoffed to himself. _As if this confused, awkward, naive 'boy' could ever be anything like me._

Sherlock hesitated, not entirely sure how to respond to Jim's account.

"Right," he started eventually, "Well, I don't really have _'friends'_." Sherlock took a calming drink of his tea before continuing.

"People tend to see me as something of a... " he paused, looking at Jim who appeared to be hanging on his every word, watching intently over his tea cup " ... a freak."

"My mind", he continued, "is always active. Always busy. Working; analysing; deducing. It overwhelms people, I suppose. They seem to dislike it." he tailed off, hoping he didn't sound as stupid as he felt.

Jim nodded. He knew. He understood.

"Sherlock." he began quietly, his Irish tone soothing and melodic, "I have just the thing for you."


	16. Chapter 15

**FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER - continuation.**

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, squinting in the dim lighting.

_Where was he?_

He frowned as he tried to think back to what he remembered last.

The library; people; a drug deal. Ah, Jim Moriarty.

He was at Jim's place. He rolled his stiff shoulders and experimentally flexed his fingers, trying to regain the feeling in his body.

"Welcome back, sweetie." Jim's Irish tones, smooth as silk, whispered in his ear. Sherlock turned his head towards the hushed sound.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked. He remembered talking and Jim approaching him but couldn't recall anything that had happened after that.

"Seems you don't keep your sweet self in very good shape, Sherlock." Jim started, sliding a hand under Sherlock's back and aiding him into a sitting position. "When did you last eat something? Anything?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and thought back. He hadn't eaten that day or possibly the one previously. Maybe longer.

"Not sure." he eventually settled on replying. "I don't tend to..." he paused, realising the ridiculousness of what he was about to say, "I don't eat much."

Jim nodded. "That does explain the extreme reaction to the alcohol then." he passed a glass of water over and Sherlock downed it thirstily.

Right, yes. Sherlock remembered the drink now. After they had drunk tea and talked, they had shared a drink. Even Sherlock knew that expensive alcohol and an empty stomach were a bad combination.

"Never mind, Sherly." Jim gave a jovial elbow in the ribs as he dropped in the nickname. "I have something that will pick you right back up again. You will _love_ this!"

He sounded excited as he began buzzing around the room, moving and arranging things.

Jim checked that the door was locked, he closed the heavy red velvet curtains, and, grabbing a lighter, he set about lighting the exotic display of deep purple candles in the ornate candle holder.

As he dimmed the main room lights, the flames began to flicker and dance, casting a shadowy glow across the room.

It was mesmerising.

Jim nodded, noticing Sherlock's reaction. "Told you it was beautiful", he reminded, "and what comes next it just the icing on the cake."

He sat himself next to Sherlock on the sofa and slid a wooden box out from underneath.

"I used to suffer like you", he began, opening the lid and setting out objects which, while he had never used in person, Sherlock knew quite well what they were, "Mind racing; never stops. It's an affliction of genius, my Father says. But this", he pointed to the box and its contents, "this will make everything better. It will fix this... our problem."

Sherlock pondered a moment. Maybe this was what he was missing in his life. Something to help him escape. A relief from it all.

As Jim prepared the drug, Sherlock felt himself relax and, by the time Jim was tying the tourniquet, his breaths were coming short and fast in anticipation.

"Relax, sweetie." The soft Irish tones hummed as Jim slowly ran his fingers along Sherlock's arms, up his neck and cupped his cheek gently.

Sherlock lay back against the sofa, and Jim watched closely as a pale blue vein popped up willingly against fragile alabaster skin.

"Beautiful indeed", he whispered in Sherlock's ear as he slipped the prepared needle into his arm.

Sherlock gasped, his chest heaving up.

A truly magnificent sight, all stretched out and pale, pupils dark with desire and want.

Jim bit his bottom lip as the drug flowed through the young Holmes.

**THREE DAYS LATER.**

"Really, Sherly. I am not a charity."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the nickname the Irishman gave him. He had come to Jim hoping for more relief. The past few days had been difficult for Sherlock. While his studies didn't prove a particular challenge for him, he was finding it very hard to get the memory of that euphoric escape out of his head.

"I have cash." Sherlock responded, sitting himself down on the sofa in Jim's room. "How much?"

Jim chuckled.

"Oh Sherly", he began, "it's not about the money."

He sat himself down next to Sherlock, slowly sliding a hand onto the Holmes' thigh. Sherlock's breath caught at the unexpected move, not sure how to respond.

The Irishman leaned across to Sherlock, lifting his other hand to his cheek and turning it to face him.

As Sherlock's eyes met his, Jim watched as his pupils blew wide and dark.

"Have you ever..." Jim paused, watching the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, "Have you ever been with a man before, Sherlock?" he purred, seductively.

"Umm, no... I... " Sherlock's mouth suddenly went dry as he tried to respond. "I confess I have no intimate experience of any kind." he finally confessed.

He had never given much thought to carnal relations with anybody. His body was merely transport for his mind, and the thought of pleasuring it seemed... boring.

His mind was his priority. Sherlock needed to control his mind, and that meant that Sherlock needed, occasionally, to release himself from it.

If that meant sacrificing his body, so be it.

It was clear that Jim Moriarty had plans for Sherlock and, if those plans ultimately meant that Sherlock got the mind relief that he needed, then what was the problem?

And so it went on for several years.

Sherlock and Jim.

Friends; lovers; junkies.

Brought together by genius and a desperate need to escape.


	17. Chapter 16

**PRESENT DAY.**

Jim slid his arm from Sherlock's waist and moved to stand in front of him. Sherlock took in every detail of the now older man. He was still as stunning now as he had been all those years ago.

"It's been a long time, Jim." he started, looking around him for somewhere to sit. He chose the sofa, it looked the least... offensive.

"I wouldn't have expected to find you somewhere like this." he gestured around the room. It really was a slum for a genius like Jim Moriarty.

Jim lowered himself onto the sofa with a dramatic sigh.

"I know, Sherly. This isn't one of my finest moments. Truth be told, I am only here..." he mimicked Sherlock's gesture round the squalor, "... to see you."

"I should say", he moved himself closer to Sherlock, pressing his thigh up closely against his former lover's, "that I would never have expected to see you here either, of course."

Sherlock took a deep breath in an effort to remain, at least outwardly, unaffected by the proximity of the Irishman. Being here, in this place, was bad enough. Being surrounded by drugs _and _ in the presence of Jim Moriarty was seriously starting to get to him.

He swallowed visibly before responding.

"Yes, well, needs must, I suppose."

Jim nodded. He remembered well. There was so much history between them that even now, over ten years after they had last seen each other, it still felt like they had never been apart.

He still sat next to Sherlock and saw that same lost, desperate genius who would do anything... _anything_ for the relief that cocaine brought him. He wondered how Sherlock had been coping since then. He didn't seem to be coping terribly well now, he noted as the detective shuddered at his touch.

"And what is it that you _need _, Sherly?" he asked, sliding a hand onto the young Holmes' thigh and hoping the use of the affectionate nickname would calm him.

It didn't. It had the opposite effect, in fact. Sherlock stood hastily and moved away from the sofa; from Jim; from the touch; from the memories.

"I..." he began, stuttering, "I just came for the coke, Jim. I paid my money for it and that's it."

Jim frowned and tutted. "Oh, Sherlock," he stood and approached the increasingly agitated Holmes, backing him up against the wall next to one of the doorways. "You know that money isn't how it works for us."

Sherlock froze, his thoughts scrambling in some desperate attempt to organise themselves. They failed.

All he could see was Jim Moriarty, dark red velvet fabric and rich deep purple flickering in antique silver.

Suddenly, he wanted. No, _he needed._

More than anything else in the entire world - _Even John?_ He pushed the thought away - he needed relief, and he needed Jim.

Jim pressed himself against Sherlock and lifted his hands, sliding them into his ex-lover's heavy coat and pushing it off.

It fell to the floor with a thud and the squalid little flat was overcome with the sounds of two men grunting and moaning.

Sherlock groaned as he felt warm hands pushing at him, fingers gliding across his skin.

Ten fiery points of contact between him and a world he had long left behind.

Each fought for dominance, but it was a fight Sherlock could never win.

Always - eventually - he would give himself to Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock awoke feeling confused and sore. It took him a moment to clear his head and remember where he was.

Unfortunately, when he did, he wished he hadn't.

"Well, hello, lover." Irish tones came from close by. _Too_ close. A hand stroked his chest and Jim came into his field of vision, propped up on one elbow on the bed.

Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned. He really was well and truly fucked now.

"Much as I'd love to stay and chat", Jim continued, climbing out of the bed and pulling on his pants and trousers, "I have places to go, people to see, yada yada. You know how it is."

He slipped on his shirt and, leaving it partially unbuttoned, pulled on his jacket before leaning down and sliding into his shoes.

Sherlock raised himself to sitting, pulling the sheet with him to keep himself decent.

Jim laughed and rolled his eyes.

"Really, Sherly. No need to be shy now. Little _late_ for that, isn't it?"

He rounded the bed - _At least we made it to the bed_, Sherlock thought - and leaned over, planting a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

"Goodbye for now, Sherlock Holmes. This was fun."

Jim turned before exiting the room, blowing a kiss to Sherlock and throwing a small box and a roll of cash - the drug payment that Sherlock had given to Surly - down on to the bed.

"I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again soon."


	18. Chapter 17

As the door to the flat closed behind Jim, Sherlock realised that he was alone.

He was alone and everywhere was very, very quiet.

He slid on his shirt and trousers and crossed to the main door, slowly opening it and peering down the hall.

Nothing. Nobody. No Surly. No one at all.

Total silence and desertion.

He huffed out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding and closed the door again, sliding the lock across firmly.

He wondered briefly if the shower in the flat worked but, doubting it, decided to head back to the bedroom and retrieve the rest of his clothing.

For what appeared to be a squat, the room had a surprisingly clean bedroom but he supposed that Jim Moriarty had the means and the money, when he had a plan in mind, to make tidy the one area he knew he would use.

_Am I really that predictable?_ He supposed he had been.

As he sat on the bed and pulled on his shoes, he noticed the box and the roll of cash that Jim had thrown to him.

_"You know that money isn't how it works for us."_ he recalled.

_God,_ he thought. _I'm no better than a cheap whore._

Sherlock stomach lurched with the realisation that he had just slipped so easily back in to habits of a decade ago.

Sex for drugs.

Jim and Sherlock.

He ran to the bathroom, heaving up the non-existent contents of his stomach into the sink and, as he stood and turned, he noticed the overflowing bin surrounded by old and dirty hypodermic needles.

The urge to shoot up right there and then was overwhelming; choking him; suffocating him.

He staggered back to the bedroom and examined the box that Jim had left. Removing the tape that secured it, he lifted the top and his adrenaline immediately spiked as he viewed its contents. He lifted out a note that had been left folded among the items.

_Thought you might need these. _

_'til next time_

_Jim_

He stared for what felt like a long while, taking in the objects in his lap.

Everything he needed. Everything he needed to escape right here, right now.

He really was predictable, wasn't he?

He thought back to the shiny black box that had once been part of his life.

Until recent days, Sherlock had managed to keep well away from cocaine, but his equipment was always there. The ornate black box lived in the bottom of his dresser. A fallback for if he ever truly needed it. He had tried removing that safety net, briefly giving it to Mycroft for safekeeping, but he had found that not having it there was a thousand times harder than knowing it was within reach.

Even during the years when he had no thoughts of using, the box - his crutch - was there. He needed that.

Now he had the cocaine, he had the means to prepare it but he had deep-rooted doubts about his ability to get through it without the rest of his box.

He wasn't an addict - _he wasn't _. He told himself that; reminded himself.

Using cocaine wasn't just about the drug for Sherlock. It wasn't just the high; the release; the relief.

It was more than that.

It was routine. It was dark red velvet and rich deep purple in antique silver.

If he reduced himself to just taking the cocaine for the escape, was he any better than any other addict?

He needed to get out of here before he did something stupid. Something he couldn't go back from.

He glanced at his watch - _7.15pm_ - John would be home.

He heart jumped at the thought of seeing John.

It was a nice feeling, a warm feeling. He pushed down the accompanying panic that hovered in the background and finished dressing.

Pulling his coat around him and glancing momentarily in the mirror - _Disgusting; used; unworthy _ - he grabbed his few things and let himself out of the empty building, heading for Baker Street.


	19. Chapter 18

Approaching 221B, Sherlock began to feel anxious.

His initial thoughts about getting home and seeing John were good thoughts. He had missed seeing his flatmate and was looking forwards to getting home, drinking tea and just being there.

He had stern words with himself.

_It's John. He's your friend. You can do this. etc. etc._

The closer he got however, the more nervous he became. He wasn't sure if it was because of the drugs he was carrying or whether it was just the anticipation of seeing John, but he felt his heart pounding in his chest harder and harder with every step.

He stopped momentarily, leaning against a wall to control himself. Deep breaths. He counted to ten, slowly and deliberately, pausing only to scowl at the elderly woman who passed by him shaking her head in disapproval.

He righted himself, stood straight - _like John would,_ he thought - and carried on towards Baker Street.

He was a grown man, for God's sake.

As Sherlock opened the living room door and hung his scarf and Belstaff, John looked up from his paper.

"Sherlock", he began, "you look... " John looked him up and down, taking in the detective's rather rumpled appearance - _jacket and trousers creased; hair even more unruly than usual_ - and frowned before deciding on a word,

"... rough!"

John laughed a laugh so endearing that Sherlock found it impossible to feel insulted and actually found himself chuckling in that seductive deep baritone in response.

"I suppose I do." he acknowledged finally. "I'll just go and ... " he nodded in the direction of the bedroom and headed off to stow his newly-gained goods and straighten himself up.

Sherlock entered his bedroom and, flicking the light on and closing the door behind him, glanced in the mirror.

He really did look a mess. His coat had hidden the worst of his crumpled clothing and his mussed up wayward hair had been loosely held in check by his scarf but, having shed those on entering the flat, he really did look like something the cat had dragged in... through a hedge... backwards.

He attempted, in vain, to run his fingers through his knotted curls. He needed to shower.

While he waited for the water to heat up, he removed the box from his jacket's inside pocket. Without opening it, he sat on the bed and laid it on his lap.

Could he do this now?

_Should_ he do this now?

He was fairly certain that he couldn't. He would need time to prepare and time to... think.

The thought of doing it so... "naked" was the only word he could come up with... scared him. It would feel wrong to do it without the comfort of being surrounded by deep red and rich purple.

Slowly but somewhat reluctantly, he placed the small box in the bottom of his dresser.

_Just in case,_ he told himself.

Meantime, he would deal with this some other way.

He carefully slipped off his shirt, trousers and underwear, mindful of what his body had been through and what marks it may hold.

Examining his torso in the mirror, he was relieved to see no lasting evidence of his _"indiscretion"._

He chuckled and then cursed at his own choice of words.

Jim Moriarty was no "indiscretion".

The man was a drug in himself.

He was powerful and addictive and, as Sherlock felt his adrenaline spike for a moment at the thought, he became aware that he wasn't entirely sure which "drug" it was he yearned for most.

Slipping his robe over his slender frame, he headed to the shower.

"Tea?" John shouted through as he heard the shower click off.

The grunt that came from the bedroom sounded like a "yes" so, folding his paper, John stood and headed to the kitchen.

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom a few minutes later, wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown, to find John just pouring two cups of tea. He stood awkwardly next to the doctor and took the cup that was passed to him with a smile.

The pair passed into the living room and sat on their facing chairs, both nursing their teacups as if the secrets of the universe were held within them.

"You OK?" John eventually asked, after he had watched Sherlock frown and stare at the tea as he swirled it around in the cup.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock broke from his trance. He blinked almost comically as his eyes raised to John's. "Yes, yes", he continued, "I'm fine."

His skin prickled all over his body with the depth of the lie, and he disguised the shudder that shook through him by shifting in his chair and taking a mouthful of hot tea.

"Right." John was unconvinced. "I can tell something is troubling you though, Sherlock." He sat forwards in his chair, placing his mug on the side table and leaning in closer to Sherlock.

"You know I'm your friend and you can talk to me, right?" his voice was filled with concern. He hadn't been completely oblivious to Sherlock's changed mood of late and, while Sherlock had attempted to dismiss it all as nothing, John was not at all sure that was the truth.

Sherlock placed his own tea on the table and fought to remain passive and unaffected by the doctor's close proximity. As he looked up to find John looking straight at him, Sherlock instinctively closed his eyes and slumped back in the chair with a dramatic sigh.

An uncomfortable silence swept through 221B. All that could be heard were two men's heartbeats, both beating hard.

One with concern for his troubled friend, and the other with panic and anticipation.

"There is something..." he eventually began.


	20. Chapter 19

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked up at John.

The doctor was watching him. If Sherlock didn't know better, he would think that John was trying to deduce him.

Sherlock could see those little frown lines around the eyes; the turn up of the lips; the slight tip of the head.

He really couldn't put this off forever.

This _thing_ he was feeling - _You're in love with John_, his psyche corrected. Sherlock told it, in no uncertain terms, to shut the hell up - had to be dealt with and, if he couldn't hide it away, perhaps letting it out and clearing the air would fix something.

He picked up his tea and took a long drink.

"Actually," he said decisively, placing his mug back on the side table, "I need a proper drink."

Sherlock stood and crossed to the little-used bottle of expensive Scotch that Mycroft had given to them as a Christmas gift. He poured two fingers for himself before waving the bottle at John.

"I think I'd better." John answered to Sherlock silent question. If this was serious enough that Sherlock felt he needed a drink, John was fairly certain that he would too.

Sherlock poured a second glass for John and, passing it over, sat back in his chair. Resisting the urge to drain the glass in one swallow, he drank half and took to studying the cut of the crystal facets.

He was still studying them when he started to speak again.

"John, do you remember when we first went to Angelo's and you asked me if I had a girlfriend?"

John took a swig of his own drink before nodding.

"Of course."

Of course he remembered. It had been one of the most awkward moments between them during those early days. John had been mortified when it became apparent that Sherlock thought he was being propositioned.

Sherlock nodded at his own recollection of that moment. He remembered the warm feeling that spread through him when John had then gone on to ask if he had a boyfriend. Sherlock, of course, knew that he had never really been interested in having a girlfriend - _boring!_ - but the boyfriend question had thrown him. He hadn't expected his seemingly heterosexual new flatmate to come out and ask something so blatant; so personal; so... close to home.

He'd never really had a boyfriend either, of course. Jim hadn't been that to him. Jim was his dealer; his fuck buddy. He certainly wasn't anything you would consider as "boyfriend" material.

Neither, he supposed, was Sherlock.

He nudged himself back into the present.

"Right, yes. Well, you also asked me if I had a boyfriend..." John made to speak and Sherlock raised a hand to stop him. "I told you that I was married to my work and implied that I didn't really have any interest in either."

John just nodded, unsure if he was actually allowed to talk yet. He remembered it; all of it; every word. "_It's all fine._" The words echoes through his mind.

Sherlock took another drink.

"I may not have been entirely telling the truth."

There, it was out.

Well, it was out in a roundabout kind of way. Kinda like when you promise your brother that you're going to write a catch-up letter to Mummy and then you only send a postcard.

But it was a start.

He dared to look back up at John who was staring at him with squinty, slitted eyes.

"Umm, about which part?" John was confused. "I mean, I've been around you enough now to know that you haven't had a partner since we met; a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Unless..." he paused momentarily before seemingly coming to a realisation. "Is that why you've been out a lot lately? You've been seeing someone?"

Despite the confusion on John's face, he did seem to have come to some sort of completely incorrect conclusion. Sherlock watched John's 'Now it all makes sense' face as his friend continued to rattle off his deductions.

"That would explain the odd moods; the distraction; the being out at odd times; the... coming in looking well and truly..." John didn't finish the sentence but both men knew exactly what he was thinking.

Sherlock almost stopped John right then and there. He had got this utterly and totally wrong but, for a moment, Sherlock wondered if it wasn't better that he thought that.

He emptied his glass and crossed to pour another.

While stood with his back to his friend, Sherlock stopped and thought.

If John thought he was seeing someone, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. It would mean that John would stop questioning his moods and would also give him some sort of free 'going out' pass.

It wouldn't solve the overall problem but perhaps it was enough?

His thoughts were broken off when John spoke again. "Man or woman?"

Sherlock hadn't anticipated that and his hand stopped, mid-pour of the Scotch. He carefully placed the bottle back in the cabinet and, cradling his glass in those long slender fingers, turned back to John.

"Sorry?" he replied, half-hoping that his ignorance of the question would lead to John not wanting to repeat it. John dashed his hopes.

"Man or woman? The person you're interested in."

"Ah, right." Sherlock stuttered. He figured he could at least that _exact _ question truthfully. "Man."

He slumped down into his chair and held up his glass, examining the cut crystal once more, this time at eye level, spinning the glass between his fingers and watching the golden liquid swirl.

_All those little Johns _, he thought absently as he watched the doctor's many faces through the facets.

The collective of mini-Johns nodded.

"Fine, good." John began, rolling his eyes at thedéjà vu of it all. "Well, I'm glad you have something... some_one_..." he corrected, "...to occupy your mind between cases then."

The detective lowered his glass and studied John. He looked OK with it. He looked 'fine'. John wasn't judging him on his preferences; wasn't judging him... at all.

Sherlock supposed that this was a victory of sorts. He raised his glass again, draining it and going back to watching John through the little crystal windows.

"Right," John added, after a longer than comfortable period of being studied by his flatmate, "I think I'll head to bed. I have surgery again in the morning and another date with Sarah after work."

John stood and left the room, and Sherlock watched as a dozen mini-Johns grabbed his heart right out of his chest and took turns to stamp on it, one by one.


	21. Chapter 20

As John and Sarah walked into the bar after dinner, the last person they expected to find, propped up at one end, was Greg Lestrade.

"Greg!" John shouted, heading over to where the DI was nursing an almost empty pint while Sarah ordered a round of drinks.

"John." Greg nodded an acknowledgement to his friend and his thanks to the barmaid as she replaced old pint with new. "Thanks, love."

"No Sherlock?" he asked the doctor, screwing his nose up as he realised he had rather stated the obvious.

"He doesn't come on _all _ our dates." John replied, rolling his eyes and smirking. "Plus, I think he will probably have a date himself tonight."

Greg raised an eyebrow, more than just a little confused by that statement. "Sherlock? A date? Who with?"

John shrugged. "Dunno, mate." He took a long drink of his pint and placed it down next to Greg's, just as Sarah joined them. "We talked and he just mentioned there was someone."

Greg frowned. Who on earth could Sherlock be seeing? Last Greg knew, Sherlock was crushing on John. It made no sense whatsoever.

"He actually told you he was seeing someone?" Greg questioned, trying to work out what exactly had been said but not really sure how much Sarah knew or should know about the whole thing.

John looked up at Greg's question. "Well, sort of." he replied. "I kind of deduced it, and he didn't deny it." He shrugged again, not sure what difference it really made. He was happy for Sherlock. It had obviously been difficult for him to keep everything quiet and undercover but he hoped that, now it was all out in the open, Sherlock would be back to his usual crazy and obnoxious self again.

Greg didn't look pleased though. His frown deepened as he drew swirls in the condensation on the side of his glass. This couldn't be right.

He pushed aside the remaining drink and started to stand.

"I'm intruding on your date" he said suddenly, "and I have an early start tomorrow. Nice to see you again, Sarah" he nodded to John's date, "and, John, see you soon, mate."

With that, Greg hurried out of the bar, pulling his phone from his pocket as he raised his arm for a taxi.

Fortunately, it was still quite early in the evening and a taxi appeared quite quickly, slowing to a stop at Greg's hail.

"Baker Street, please, mate." Greg asked with urgency, climbing into the rear seat and pulling the door closed.

The cabbie nodded and set off. Greg flipped his phone over and over in his hand for a while, thinking before finally unlocking it and scrolling down his contacts, stopping when he reached Sherlock's number.

_Everything OK? - GL_

As he pressed send, he realised he actually wasn't sure what kind of response he would get. The question was somewhat ambiguous and there was nothing to stop Sherlock outright lying in response anyway.

He tapped his fingers on his lap in thought and scrolled up through his contacts again - Mycroft.

_Have you heard from Sherlock? - GL_

He had barely put the phone down on his knee when it vibrated with an incoming message.

_What has my brother done now, Detective Inspector? MH_

Greg grinned at the formality. It would have been so much quicker to type "Greg" yet the government official would do nothing less than keep it professional, of course.

_I am worried about him - Greg_

He used his first name in the hope of Mycroft picking up on the subtle hint. He really was worried about Sherlock though. He and John had obviously spoken but something seemed very wrong with how the discussion had gone. John had made an assumption that Sherlock had met someone, and Sherlock had just let him think that.

That coupled with the fact that John was out on a date with Sarah - something Sherlock would certainly have deduced himself, even if he hadn't been told - made Greg very much concerned about him.

The phone buzzed in his lap: incoming call - Mycroft Holmes.

He took a deep breath before answering, trying to ignore the flutter in his stomach that seeing the elder Holmes' name on his caller display had produced.

"Gregory." Mycroft began, before Greg had a chance to greet him. "What seems to be the problem with my brother?"

Gregory was momentarily flummoxed and had no idea what to say. "Right, yes, Mycroft, hello", he started, groaning at his own idiocy and how pathetic he sounded. "I don't really know if we ought to be discussing this on the phone though." He frowned again. No wonder his on-off wife/ex was always commenting on his frown lines, he thought, Sherlock is frown-enducing.

Greg heard Mycroft talking to someone in the background briefly and waited until he had finished before continuing. "You haven't seen or heard from Sherlock then?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Contrary to popular opinion, I do not keep tabs on my brother twenty-four-seven, Gregory."

Greg was about to make some quip about it being unlikely the Mycroft Holmes missed much that his little brother got up to when the cabbie got his attention.

"What address, mate?"

"221B, please. Next to Speedy's." Greg replied, noticing that they were almost there anyway.

"Mycroft, I am calling in to check on your brother now. I'll keep you updated."

"Please do, Detective Inspector." Mycroft responded formally before a quiet click indicated he had rung off just as the taxi stopped outside Speedy's.

"Thanks, mate." Greg nodded to the cabbie, paying his fare before heading to the door of 221.

He took a moment to check his phone again, before knocking, to make sure he hadn't missed any incoming messages from Sherlock while he had been talking.

Nothing. No message.

He raised a hand to knock just as Mrs Hudson opened the door to exit.

"Inspector!" she exclaimed with a half-squeal, dramatically placing her hand over her chest. "You nearly frightened me to death! Did you want Sherlock or John? I think John is out but Sherlock is upstairs, my dear. Do come in."

Greg nodded his thanks and was heading up the stairs when Mrs Hudson shouted up after him. "He's been awfully melancholy lately, Inspector. Tell him I'll bake him some nice fruit scones when I get back from my salsa class." and with that, she headed out the door.

Gregory fought off a haunting sense of deja vu as he climbed the stairs to 221B. The vision of Sherlock, lifeless on the sofa, would be ingrained in his memory for the rest of his days. He had no idea what he would find when he entered the flat. Resisting the urge to fly up them 3 at a time, he second-guessed whether he ought to knock before entering. He decided to knock anyway.

"Sherlock?" he shouted, knocking softly on the door in case he was resting or sleeping or whatever it is Holmeses do.

"Go away, Inspector."

Greg breathed out a sigh of relief just at the sound of Sherlock's voice and was about to speak again when Sherlock startled him by opening the door.

"I do not require a babysitter, Detective Inspector." he said firmly, planting himself in the doorway to ensure that Greg couldn't enter.

"Sherlock..." Greg aimed for his voice to sound calm and placating but he wasn't entirely convinced he was pulling it off. He was anxious and worried and Sherlock, despite his claims not to need a babysitter, looked every bit like a lost child.

"Please..." the DI continued, placing a hand on Sherlock's arm.

The consulting detective's breath hitched and he moved aside, allowing Greg to pass. Both men moved to the sofa and Greg sat alongside where Sherlock flung himself.

He heard the young man take a shuddering long breath before he started to speak.

"I couldn't do it, Greg."

How it must have hurt for Sherlock Holmes to admit to anyone, friend or not, that there were some things he just couldn't do.

He was completely out of his depth trying to deal with emotions and sentiment.

Greg had no idea what to say.

"Yeah, mate. I've seen John..." he hesitated before finishing "... and Sarah."

Sherlock said nothing but nodded solemnly.

After a long period of silence, Sherlock spoke again.

"I couldn't do it, Greg." he repeated. He sounded so small, so vulnerable. Greg sighed and placed his hand back on Sherlock's arm.

As Sherlock rested his head against Greg's shoulder, he closed his eyes and it wasn't long before Greg realised that the young Holmes had fallen asleep.

Greg gently slid out from underneath Sherlock and carefully laid him down on the worn sofa, covering him with his robe.

"I know." he said, quietly. "I know."


	22. Chapter 21

Leaving 221B with Sherlock soundly asleep inside, Greg pulled his phone from his pocket before looking for a taxi.

He scrolled to Mycroft's number and typed in a message.

_Sherlock's sleeping. Can we talk? - Greg_

Almost as though Mycroft had been anticipating the contact, Greg's phone instantly rang.

"Gregory," Mycroft began, "I shall send a car for you at once."

"Thanks, Mycroft." Greg sighed. He wasn't too keen on being whisked away in one of Mycroft's black town cars but at least he had been forewarned.

Minutes later, the blacked-out vehicle pulled up alongside 221B and Greg climbed in, surprised to find "Anthea" (Greg assumed that was still her name) already in the back seat.

"Good Evening, Detective Inspector." Anthea spoke, not taking her eyes from her phone.

"Evening." Greg replied. "Where are we going?"

Anthea broke form and looked up, smiling.

"Mr Holmes has requested that you meet him at his home." she responded calmly, as if this was an every day occurrence.

Mycroft's house. Greg hadn't expected that at all. He wondered what kind of house somebody like Mycroft Holmes lived in. No doubt something ostentatious and extravagant. Something as immaculate and impeccably well-kept as the man himself, he supposed. A smile developed as Greg realised he was thinking fondly of the elder Holmes. Nervously, he glanced up to check that Anthea wasn't watching him. She didn't appear to be paying him any attention although he couldn't help noticing the small smirk on her lips.

The town car slowed, stopping outside a tall white building. Greg climbed out noting that, even in the darkness, the building appeared to be all tall windows and columns.

Anthea nodded a wordless farewell, and Greg approached the large arched door. He had barely reached the front step when the door opened and, dressed in casual blue slacks and a pale shirt, rolled up to the elbows, Mycroft Holmes appeared.

At least, Greg was fairly certain it was Mycroft Holmes. Without the trademark 3-piece suit and tie, he barely recognised the man, but what didn't go unnoticed was the way his own stomach flipped at the sight of Mycroft's casual and genuinely welcoming smile.

"Welcome, Gregory." Mycroft swept an arm aside, beckoning in the detective. "May I offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee? Something... stronger?"

Greg passed into a large hallway, resisting the urge to comment on the sheer size of the hall. "You don't have staff for this sort of thing?" he quipped, chuckling. "Answering your own door? Isn't that a bit risky for the British Government?"

Mycroft smiled, closing the front door and leading Greg into a large living room. "My security detail is discreetly positioned, Detective Inspector." he replied. "I do not require in-house personnel. Drink?" he offered, crossing to a large, dark oak drinks cabinet. "I have a rather good Scotch that was gifted to me by the Prime Minister."

Greg nodded, seating himself in one of the two expensive-looking chairs placed atmospherically on either side of the fireplace. "Please. I could use a stiff drink actually."

He really could. His nerves had been on edge before he visited Sherlock and the subsequent trip to Mycroft's had only raised his anxiety levels even higher. Although, he had to admit to himself, the reasons for his peaked adrenaline right now had much less to do with worry and more to do with being in Mycroft's presence.

Mycroft broke him out of his reverie as he passed him an expensive crystal tumbler of Scotch. "You spoke with my brother?" he asked, taking the chair opposite Greg's.

Greg took a large gulp of the smooth amber liquid, closing his eyes briefly as a soft warmth spread through him.

Opening his eyes again, he nodded. "I did. He's..." Greg hesitated, unsure how much detail to go into with the man's brother "... he's OK."

_Cop out, Greg _, he thought. He'd have to tell Mycroft _something_, he just needed to gather his thoughts and figure out what. Maybe Mycroft would understand.

"Mycroft, I know you and your brother aren't exactly close. It's difficult to know exactly what to tell you without breaking his confidence."

The elder Holmes nodded. He completely understood Greg's reluctance. Sherlock would probably be unimpressed with the idea of Mycroft knowing his business but this, whatever it was, was serious. If he was having problems, back to taking drugs, if he was suffering... Mycroft closed his eyes at the thought of losing his brother. He'd been too close to it too often.

"I am sure that my brother appreciates your friendship, Gregory." he said, opening his eyes to show only calm and sophistication, despite feeling anything but calm inside. "However," he continued, "if there is anything that I should know. Any way that I can be of assistance?" Greg could see the worry all over Mycroft now. His face; his body; his very being vibrated with the _very _ real concern he clearly had for his brother.

Greg took another drink and stood, placing his glass down on the mantelpiece. As he spoke, he made sure to directly face Mycroft, opening himself up to the man.

"Sherlock is in love with John."

_Subtle, Greg_, he thought, but he had just needed to get it out and beating about the bush really wouldn't help matters.

Mycroft said nothing.

For a long moment, he just sat and stared.

His breathing was slow and steady and Greg could see the man swallow hard before he took another drink and stood.

He approached Greg at the fireplace and, placing his own drink alongside the detective's, turned to face him.

Greg looked into the eyes of his friend's brother; the government employee; this man; and felt his throat go dry as Mycroft Holmes took one of his hands, slowly stroking a thumb across his knuckles.

"Please just be there for him, Gregory." Mycroft pleaded, his eyes dropping to their point of contact. "My brother's experience in this area is..." Greg saw Mycroft stall and almost felt the man tremble through their joined hands. "He hasn't had any good experiences, Gregory."

Greg wondered what exactly Mycroft meant by that. Not good experiences? Did that mean that Sherlock had past bad experiences then? He contemplated asking but he was too completely distracted by the feel of Mycroft's thumb smoothing repeatedly across the back of his hand.

"Mycroft..." he stuttered, his voice harsh and hesitant, "... I will always be here for your brother, if he needs me."

Mycroft nodded, lifting his eyes to meet the detective's, seeing blown pupils reflecting back the desire he himself strongly felt.

"Thank you, Gregory." he replied, before taking another shaky breath. "Would you also considering being here for me?"


	23. Chapter 22

Sherlock woke with a start, quickly realising that he had fallen asleep on the sofa again. He stretched out his gangly limbs, loosening tight muscles as memories came back to him slowly.

He'd come back home. (_from seeing Jim_ - he repressed that part of the memory)  
He'd showered and stored his stuff. (_drugs, don't beat about the bush, Sherlock)_  
He had spoken with John. (_oh yeah, that went really well, didn't it?_ He rolled his eyes at his own psyche)  
John had gone out. (_on a date with_...- Sherlock repressed that part of the memory too)  
Greg had called round.

Right, yes. Greg had called round to check on him.

It irked him knowing that Greg knew so much about all of this, but he knew that the detective was just worried. Greg had been Sherlock's friend for many years, since his darker days, and he knew everything about Sherlock.

He knew about John.  
He knew about the drugs.  
And now, he knew about "the talk".

Right, yes, the talk

Except Sherlock hadn't taken the newly gotten drugs. He'd retreated to his Mind Palace after John had gone out, only coming back just minutes before Greg had arrived.  
Then he'd fallen asleep. On the sofa. On Greg.

But he hadn't taken the drugs.  
He was stronger than that. He had other ways to deal.  
His Mind Palace was solid; reliable; dependable.  
And Greg. Greg was his friend. He didn't judge.

He looked at the clock on the mantel. Nearly 11.30pm. John wasn't home. Well, he didn't think he was. He hadn't heard him come in, and he rarely slept so heavily that he would miss someone come in to 221B. He briefly debated going up to John's room to see if John was there but really, he knew. He wasn't there. He hadn't come home. He was out. On a date. With Sarah. He would be staying at Sarah's.

Sherlock took a long, shuddering breath before he stood and moved over to the desk, opening his laptop.  
As his browser started on screen, he opened up John's blog and started reading through the most recent entries.  
He smiled as he was reminded of various cases they'd taken lately and something fluttered in his chest - _pride?_ - as he read all the different ways John always found to compliment him.

John had so many nice things to say about him.  
John was his friend.  
John _is_ his friend.

Sherlock embraced the warm feeling that the realisation gave him.  
John is his friend.  
John will _always_ be his friend.

Sherlock stifled a tired yawn. Emotions were exhausting.

He closed his laptop and headed to his bedroom, slipping himself between cool sheets with a soft sigh and a smile.

Sherlock was jolted from his sleep when his phone started to buzz, dancing its way across the side table, with the notification of an incoming message.  
Sleepily, he reached across and fumbled in the darkness, dragging the device onto his pillow as he squinted at the glowing screen.

_Did you do it yet, Sherly?_

Sherlock blinked and re-read the message. There was only one person who called him that.  
He was still processing that thought when the phone buzzed again.

_You know you want to._

He frowned. What was Jim doing? Taunting him? Goading him?  
His heart started beating hard. He couldn't breathe. He felt himself getting light-headed; panicked.

_Are you thinking about me, Sherlock?_

God, what was he doing? What did he want?  
Sherlock felt his stomach lurch as the day's events flooded his memories, and he barely made it to the bathroom before he vomited.

Returning to the bedroom, he sank to the floor and leant against the bed, dropping his head onto the soft sheets and closing his eyes.  
His breathing was heavy and laboured. He made an attempt to calm himself and access his Mind Palace for refuge.  
He couldn't do it. He was too agitated. Too wound up.

He needed peace. He needed escape.  
He needed...

His eyes flew open and homed in on the dresser opposite him.

He heard himself moan. A long, needy, desperate moan. He tried to stifle it but it was strong. Powerful.  
His arm twitched, and he instinctively clenched a fist.

The phone buzzed a fourth time, and he flung himself to retrieve it, annoyed at the intrusion.

_Do you want me, Sherly?_

Sherlock let out a harsh breath and threw the device. It hit the back wall and slid down onto the floor.

"No!" he shouted at the floor; the phone; the room, his voice filled with anger.  
"No, I don't want you." Anger turned to fear.  
"I will _never_ want you!" Fear turned to desperation, and his voice became small.

His eyes fogged with reluctant tears, and his arms trembled as he attempted to crawl across the carpet of his room, towards the dresser.  
Pulling the bottom drawer open and removing the box, the tears began to fall, and a shaky hand opened it, tipping out its contents.

His thoughts were clouded, his breathing erratic and his body shook as the long, practised fingers set about hastily preparing the drug.  
He choked out a sob as he pulled the tourniquet tight and, angrily taking hold of the needle, he pressed it into the crook of his elbow.

As the poison flooded his system, he muttered one more time...

"I need..."


	24. Chapter 23

Greg swallowed hard and swayed a little on his feet. Mycroft reached out with his free hand to steady the detective, placing elegant, long fingers on his shoulder.

"Sit." he commanded, gently guiding Greg down onto the long couch and taking a place next to him.

"I'm fine, Mycroft." Greg said, closing his eyes with a mild embarrassment. "I just..." he looked at Mycroft whose face was lined with anxiety and concern "... I just didn't expect this."

Mycroft looked abashed and removed his hand from the detective's shoulder.

"I am sorry, Gregory. I should never have assumed..."

"Stop, Mycroft." Greg cut him off, placing his own hand on the thigh next to him. Mycroft lifted his eyes to Greg's and the detective felt his heart rate quicken and his breathing stutter. "It's OK." Greg continued, nodding as if it made it all more believable. "I want this too."

Mycroft let out a long breath with a nervous chuckle before covering Greg's hand with his own, squeezing gently. "It appears that my initial confidence may have got away from me somewhat, Gregory", Mycroft began, turning his head once more away from the other man. "I confess I have no experience of how we progress from here."

Mycroft was flustered and definitely out of his depth. He had little experience with sentiment or emotions. They were things that the Holmes boys had been conditioned to repress. They didn't let their hearts rule their heads.

But there was something about seeing Sherlock suffer and knowing why that had prompted Mycroft not to make the same mistakes. He felt an obvious attraction to Greg and knew he had no desire to just let it go without at least telling the detective how he felt.

So here he was, and here they were. His thoughts were halted when Greg lifted his hand to Mycroft's face, turning it back towards his own.

"Mycroft", he began, seeing a thousand conflicted emotions on those pale features, "It's fine. We can just take it slow. Do... whatever you feel comfortable with." He watched the man's Adam's apple dance as he swallowed and a split second later, Greg was blown away as Mycroft Holmes; the British Government; his friend's brother leant in towards him and took his mouth in a soft kiss.

Greg groaned, pressing back against Mycroft's mouth and the kiss turned from soft, gentle and almost chaste to hard and needy. Both men shifted on the sofa, getting into a better position to prolong the contact, and Greg was surprised a second time as Mycroft slid his tongue across his lower lip, pressing it slightly, demanding entry. Greg toyed, for a moment, with the idea of pushing Mycroft down against the sofa but instead leant back and pulled the man on top of him, giving him choice; giving him power.

Mycroft moaned and repositioned himself along the length of Greg's firm body, sliding his hands under the detective's shirt and pushing it up slightly to expose bronzed flesh. He lifted his head, breaking the kiss, and looked down at the man laid out beneath him. Both men were panting hard and Greg's face echoed back all the want, all the need and all the desires that Mycroft himself felt.

Greg smiled up at him and slid his own hands around to unbutton his shirt while Mycroft saw to his own. As he revealed the expanse of pale skin, Mycroft leant over once more, laying naked flesh against naked flesh, pale against bronze, and both men moaned in unison at the warmth of each others' bodies, skin on skin.

Mycroft stretched his legs out along the detective's and, pressing their lips together, mirrored that pressure with his groin. As hardness found hardness, Greg broke the kiss, gasping against Mycroft's ear "Oh god, Mycroft." The man on top smiled and ground himself again against the breathless man beneath him, feeling their lengths slide together, creating feelings of _"oh yes, just like that"_ and _"oh god, more, more, more"_.

As those feelings became verbalised, the room filled with chants of "yes"... "more"... "harder"... and "soon" and mere moments later, Greg thrust himself up against the long figure above him, biting his lip but failing to stifle the cry of "Yes, yes, Mycroft..." as he came.

Hearing his name on that beautiful man's lips was more than Mycroft could handle, and he arched his body, throwing his head back and sighing just one long word as he came hard and heavy against the man.

"Gregory..."


	25. Chapter 24

It was a little after 3am when John slipped his key into the door of 221B. He had intended to stay over at Sarah's but there was something; a feeling; a foreboding that he just couldn't shake. He had tried to ignore it but, after 2 hours of tossing and turning in Sarah's bed, he couldn't fight it any longer.

He had got up, got dressed and come home. He was fairly certain that he would find Sherlock sleeping, most likely on the sofa, but as he opened the living room door, he realised that at least that theory was wrong.

Maybe he was out? Or in bed? John frowned with indecision about whether to intrude on his flatmate's privacy and look. Instead, he wandered into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. Perhaps if Sherlock was awake and heard him moving about in the flat, he would come out anyway.

He lifted down two mugs - habit - and dropped in teabags. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he sat at the kitchen table, absently running his fingers along the wooden edge, deep in thought.

Greg's mood in the bar had puzzled him. He had appeared overly worried about Sherlock, and John had no idea why. As far as he knew, Sherlock and Greg had only been in contact at the Yard, during the recent basement murder case, and Greg hadn't seemed concerned then. Greg seemed anxious about Sherlock on a personal level. John wondered what could have happened to elicit such a reaction.

The kettle clicked off, and John rose to pour two teas. Picking up the steaming mugs from the kitchen counter, he made the decision to check on Sherlock with the excuse of offering the second cup. He passed through to Sherlock's bedroom and pressed his ear to the door, listening. No movement. Perhaps he wasn't there. Maybe he had gone out. Maybe he was sleeping. He decided to take a chance and open the door. If Sherlock was awake, the detective wouldn't mind and, if he was sleeping then, well, he wouldn't know, would he?

Grabbing the handles of both teas in one hand, he slowly and quietly opened Sherlock's bedroom door.

Seconds later, both mugs crashed to the floor...

What John Watson saw, as he entered his flatmate's bedroom, was absolutely and undoubtedly the last thing he had expected to see... EVER.

Sherlock's pale, angular body lay in an almost impossible position, slumped against the open bottom drawer of the dresser. Around him, John saw objects that, with horror, he identified.

Stepping carefully around two spilt mugs of tea and broken china, he switched into "Doctor mode", carefully examining Sherlock as he moved him into a recovery position and checked for a pulse.

Weak. The pulse was very weak, and his breathing was shallow and laboured.

He looked so pallid; deathly; lifeless.

_Phone _, John thought, trying not to panic.

As he dug in his back pocket for his mobile and called for an ambulance, he momentarily wondered who else he should call.

Mycroft? Greg? He dismissed the former but decided to dial Greg's personal mobile number. The detective had clearly been concerned for the young Holmes and it was now evident why. He hoped Greg wouldn't mind being woken at such an hour. He was likely at home in bed.

"Lestrade." a gruff voice mumbled. Yes, sleeping then.

"Greg?" John swallowed around a lump in his throat as he pushed sweat-soaked dark curls from the pale man's forehead.

"John?" Greg asked, suddenly sounding awake and alert. "John? What is it?"

John was aware of a second voice in the background of the call but blanked it out in favour of speaking to Greg.

"It's Sherlock", the doctor began, "he's taken something. Injected something. We're at Baker Street, but I've called an ambulance so I guess we'll be heading to the hospital. I just thought you should know..."

There was a scuffle and talking again at the other end of the call. It sounded like frantic, worried conversation although John could not identify who it was or what was being said.

The last voice he expected to hear however was that which spoke next.

"We shall meet you there, Doctor Watson." Mycroft said, voice controlled but still indicating an edge of anxiety. "I shall ensure that my brother receives the best attention."

"Right... yes... OK." John wasn't entirely sure what to make of that development. He was fairly sure he had woken the detective so why was Mycroft there? Where _was_ Greg? He pushed it aside for now. There were more important concerns.

There was one, majorly big fucking important concern, and it was currently laid out on the floor next to him: unconscious; pulse weak; breathing shallow; overdosed.

John ended the call, unsure whether Mycroft or Greg had done so already but not caring. The ambulance would arrive soon. He took a long, hard look at the prone figure beside him.

"Why?" he whispered, curling his legs under him as he knelt beside Sherlock's motionless form. "Why, Sherlock?"

"You have so much to live for. Your work. People who care about you. Your brother, Greg, Mrs Hudson, even Molly..." John's voice cracked "... and me." He finished weakly.

John hesitantly laid a hand on the detective's cool arm, lightly stroking as his tears began to fall.

"I care about you, Sherlock."


	26. Chapter 25

The room was cold, bleak and silent but for the steady beep-beep of the monitor and occasional hiss of oxygen.

The consulting detective looked frail and ghostly: pale, alabaster skin against sterile, white hospital sheets. If John hadn't know better, he would have thought Sherlock was sleeping, but John did know better and, as he looked on from the dated armchair next to his flatmate's bed, his mind was filled with thoughts and questions.

Why? What had prompted Sherlock to do this? Could he have stopped it?

John had been under the impression that things were looking up for Sherlock. He had his work and he had someone. Someone. Who? Did someone else turn Sherlock back to drugs? Did something happen with this person that had caused Sherlock to do this?

He was overcome by a myriad of conflicting emotions. Anger at Sherlock for doing this. Pity for his friend that he had become so unhappy. Guilt for not realising how bad things really were. Fear at the prospect of losing Sherlock. And a desperate, crippling pain in his chest that was threatening to tear him in two.

John rubbed his hands over his face and eyes, realising he was incredibly tired. He wondered if Greg had arrived yet. And Mycroft. More questions. Greg and Mycroft. What was that all about then? John groaned and closed his eyes as he slumped back in the chair.

He was just starting to doze off when the door to Sherlock's room opened. John opened his eyes to see Greg enter, and he nodded a wordless greeting to the detective.

"Any news?" Greg whispered, his eyes trained on the pale form laid between them. John shook his head. "Not yet."

"Coffee?" the DI asked, nodding his head towards the door. "Mycroft can sit with Sherlock."

John raised an eyebrow at both offers. He could use a coffee. It was that or fall asleep, and well, if Mycroft was there, perhaps it was acceptable to leave Sherlock in his brother's company. He nodded to Greg and the detective slipped briefly back into the hall, returning moments later with Mycroft in tow.

"Doctor Watson." the elder Holmes nodded as he entered the room and rounded Sherlock's bed.

"Mycroft." John acknowledged, standing and freeing up the chair for the man to sit. He couldn't bring himself to converse with the brother of the man whose body was laid next to them. Mycroft should have known. He always knows. He knows everything about everybody and he should have known about Sherlock. He was only thankful that Mycroft also seemed to have no desire for conversation.

As he crossed to the door, John approached his flatmate; his friend and, mindful of tubes and wires, slowly and carefully stroked his fingers across the back of Sherlock's hand. "Why, Sherlock?" he choked out, his breath catching. "Just...why?"

Greg placed a placating hand on John's arm and gently parted them.

"Come with me, John." he said, voice gravelly and rough. "I have to tell you something."

Greg and John were sat in the busy waiting room, sipping tepid vending machine coffee, when Greg started to speak. "John, I had hoped Sherlock would tell you what has been troubling him, but it seems that, being a Holmes, that really isn't going to happen." Holmes men could be ridiculously frustrating and Greg had known Sherlock for long enough that he really wasn't surprised that he hadn't opened up to John. Not about this.

John looked at Greg, his face pale and resigned, ready to hear whatever it was the detective had to tell him. He just needed to know. "He told me he was seeing someone. I presume this is something to do with them?"

Greg took a mouthful of coffee and sighed before answering. "Not really." he eventually replied. He really had no idea how to share what he knew. This was one god damned awkward conversation, and they were having it in a none-too-private hospital waiting room, shared with anxious, waiting families and other concerned individuals.

He was pretty certain that the general ambient noise in the room would mean they wouldn't be overheard, but he lowered his voice anyway. "He's in love with you, John."

John stopped, coffee mid-way to his mouth. _He what?_

Greg continued talking in hushed tones. "This isn't the first time he has done this in recent days. I came round a couple of days ago and found him. Mycroft sent medical staff to see to him that time but this..." the detective stuttered. They were both all too well aware that the outcome of Sherlock's overdose was still unclear. "... this", he continued, "this is ... worse.

"He said it numbs the feelings. Makes him forget. Helps him to cope with how he feels about you. He couldn't tell you, John. He knows you won't feel the same. I'm sorry. Maybe if I'd told you sooner..."

John placed his hand on Greg's arm, stopping him. He could see guilt and responsibility all over the man's face.

"Stubborn git." John muttered, trying to keep calm in the face of this news. "I knew... I knew there was something. I gave him opportunities to open up to me. Every chance. I should have pushed. I should have known." His voice broke off into silent sobs and it was Greg's turn to comfort.

As the two of them sat silently in the room, neither noticed the unassuming man, who had been sat behind them, listening, as he stood to leave.

As Jim Moriarty exited the hospital, he pulled out his mobile phone and dialled a number.

"Sebby!" the Irishman purred, "I have a job for you."


	27. Chapter 26

**THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER.**

The tall blonde hurried out of the library, hugging the book to her chest. Suzette had been studying anatomy when Sherlock had entered, and they had both ended up sat at the same table, in the corner of the library, referencing the same two books.

Suzette was an enigma to Sherlock. She seemed plain and quite reserved, but Sherlock could tell that, underneath those layers, there was a complex individual with a passion for anatomy and puzzles. Beyond that though, Sherlock could deduce little else, and the mystery enticed him. She had chatted with him comfortably, not in the least bit perturbed by his strange ways and odd opinions, and the two of them had arranged to meet later that evening. Sherlock had a book that he wanted to show her.

The two of them became friends. Real, genuine friends. Sherlock was careful to hide this friendship from Jim (and his association with Jim from Suzette) as he attempted to keep the two parts of his life separate. Suzette would visit him during the daytime and evenings when he wasn't with Jim and they would study together - she shared his fascination with the more macabre subjects - and discuss everything from unsolved crimes to the social activities of their peers.

There was never any romantic tendencies between them, and Suzette never shows any indication that she wanted it. They were just good friends with common interests and, when Suzette came into the library one day and presented Sherlock with a birthday gift of two antique silver candle holders, Sherlock was truly touched. She had often commented on his beautiful deep purple candles and how the little, peeling silver plated holders that Sherlock kept them in simply did not do them justice. When she came across the ornate silver pair in an antiques shop, she knew exactly who would love them.

Sherlock smiled as she left. A smile of mixed emotions. The antique silver was perfect. Perfect in every way. It was bittersweet.

As Suzette left the library, Jim strolled in, approaching Sherlock as he was packing his books to leave.

"Sherly." he began, purring Sherlock's pet name in a way that Sherlock both hated and lived for. "Will I see you tonight?"

Jim picked up one of the books that Sherlock was bundling into his bag. "Dissections Illustrated; A Graphic Handbook for Students of Human Anatomy" He flicked through the pages, screwing his nose up at the content.

"Really, Sherly?" he questioned, shoving the book into the rucksack.

Sherlock shrugged. He didn't suppose it was any less tasteful that what the two of them did together.

"I can't come over tonight, Jim." Sherlock finally answered, peering anxiously from beneath his fringe. "I am busy." Clipping his bag closed and slinging it over his shoulder, he started to make his way out of the library with Jim hot on his heels.

"Busy?" Jim repeated, his voice raised in anger. "Since when are you _busy_?" Grabbing hold of Sherlock's bag strap, he spun the man round, pushing him back against the wall with a quick glance around to ensure nobody was there to witness.

"You are _never_ too busy for _me!_" he hissed, pressing his forearm against Sherlock's throat and pinning him to the wall. Sherlock's struggled breaths shallowed and he tried to push Jim off, ineffectually grabbing at his assailant. The protests just angered Jim further, and he used his second hand to pin Sherlock at his groin, pressing a palm against the other man's cock which laid limp. Nevertheless, the move had the desired effect of making him keep still.

"That's better, Sherlock." he snarled, putting particular emphasis on the 'lock' sound of the full name he rarely used. "I. Shall. See. You. Later."

Sherlock nodded weakly, and Jim released him, giving a final squeeze with his palm before removing it.

"He's seeing someone, boss." Sebastian announced, entering Jim's flat and passing over the camera. "Some girl. Suzette."

Jim pulled the memory card from the camera and slid it into the computer. He scowled as the pictures loaded up. Sherlock was clearly very comfortable with this girl. _Too_ comfortable. Sebastian had photos of them chatting and laughing, sharing coffees and lunches. One photo in particular irked him. The pair were sat in a café, deep in some sort of discussion and that expression, the expression on Sherlock's face was one of pure contentment. This person; this girl was going to come between Jim and his Sherlock; _HIS_ Sherlock, and Jim was not happy about that at all.

"Sebastian", he finally started, after some considerable effort to compose himself and reign in his anger, "There is something I need you to do for me and I will _more_ than make it worth your while."

Sherlock barely heard a word that the officer had said to him.

"... in the bathtub... overdose... no suspicious circumstances... looks like a typical student suicide..."

He blinked away the tears that threatened to give away the feelings that he was trying so hard to subdue. Suzette, his friend, his only _real_ friend had been discovered by her flatmate earlier that morning. It seemed as though she had taken an overdose of some sort of painkillers and died in the bath. People were claiming that she was having problems with her family, and she had been struggling with her work, but Sherlock had seen no evidence of this. He had spent a considerable amount of time with Suzette, and she had never given the impression that anything was wrong at home or with her studies. Sherlock began to wonder if his deductions were flawed or if it was all a lie: a big cover up of the truth. He suspected he knew which.

As he lay in Jim's bed that evening, having whored himself out for the cocaine he so dearly needed, he relegated his friendship with Suzette to a closed room of his Mind Palace and pressed 'delete'.


	28. Chapter 27

**PRESENT DAY**

John swept his hands across his face. His mind was a swirl of chaos and confusion.

It was him.

He was the reason for all of this madness.

Sherlock had been taking drugs because of him.

Sherlock might...

He couldn't finish his own thoughts and found himself grateful for the distraction of a hand on his arm.

"You can't blame yourself, John", Greg squeezed his friend's arm, "This really isn't your fault."

John sighed. He supposed he knew that really but boy, was he feeling responsible. Shouldn't he have seen it? Shouldn't he have known? Shouldn't he have been able to tell that...

"Sherlock is in love with me?" Tears pricked at his red-rimmed eyes again. _Surely there are no more tears to fall_, he thought. "He told you?"

"I don't think he would have if I hadn't found him after..." Greg responded, leaving the sentence open, neither of them really wanting to discuss what had happened. Not now. Not yet.

"He was confused. He didn't know what to do; how to cope. He couldn't tell you himself, I guess. I thought he might..." he trailed off again, his voice cracking.

"Does Mycroft know?" John's question was unexpected, and Greg wasn't immediately sure whether to answer truthfully. His hesitation gave him away however.

"Right." John nodded, accepting that he was clearly the one being kept out of the loop. "Just me then."

"Mate," Greg tipped his head to meet John's, looking his friend directly in the face; in those lost, confused eyes.

"The thing with Mycroft..."

He swallowed hard, trying to muster up enough courage to tell John what had happened.

"... I only told Mycroft about this last night. He knew something was wrong. I was just... updating him. I felt he should know, if there was a chance he could help..."

Greg knew he wasn't entirely getting to the point, but as John sat there almost mindlessly nodding along, it was getting harder and harder to say it.

"Mycroft and I... we're... involved."

There. It was out. He sat back on the hard plastic chair with a long exhale.

John turned his head to the detective to see him sat, face screwed up almost as if he was waiting for something bad to happen.

"Involved?" he asked.

"With each other." Greg clarified.

"It just kind of... happened." Greg wondered at his timing. It felt as though air needed clearing about everything and he had felt compelled to get it out, but he did wonder whether, under the circumstances, it was news that would be unwelcome.

"Right." John nodded again. He wasn't sure he could form anything beyond one-word sentences right now. Greg and Mycroft. _Well, why not?_ he thought. A small smile crept across his lips.

"And it's good?" he finally asked.

Greg raised an eyebrow at the smile, the question and the memory.

"Oh yes," he answered, mirroring John's smile and expanding it into a full face grin. "It's very good."

Mycroft was sitting next to his brother when the doctor came in, closely followed by a nurse.

"He is stable, Mr Holmes." the doctor offered with a nod to the younger man laid between them. "We have assessed his physical state as best we can and cannot see any obviously problems... " he hesitated as Mycroft stood and rounded the bed to stand in front of the young doctor. The doctor swallowed nervously before continuing "however, whether there are any long-term psychological effects, we may not be able to tell immediately."

"Thank you, Doctor..." he glanced at the anxious-looking doctor's name tag, "...Hawkins. Do we know when he might be expected to wake up?"

Doctor Hawkins glanced at his clipboard before answering, "Later today, I think. He is currently being kept lightly sedated while we assess him. His body temperature has begun to stabilise but he has showed signs of not being ready to be off the ventilator or saline yet. We need to particularly monitor his heart and these checks are, for the time being, best done while the patient... your brother is sedated."

Mycroft nodded and began walking towards the door while the nurse checked over Sherlock, changing saline bags and taking readings. "I trust somebody will contact me if there is any change in his condition, Doctor Hawkins?"

The doctor cleared his throat, "Of course, Mr Holmes. Of course." and he breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind one the most terrifyingly influential relatives he had ever had the luck to be presented with.

He turned to his patient and shook his head. "Mr Holmes. I fear for my own job if you don't pull through this!"

The nurse smiled sympathetically. She knew he was right.

As Mycroft appeared in the waiting room, looking completely lost and out of place, Greg and John stood and approached him. Both men were red-eyed and puffy-faced and Mycroft swallowed, unsure what conversation had gone on between them and what exactly might have been discussed.

"John. Gregory." Mycroft nodded to the two men, and the three passed out of the waiting room and into the corridor. "Please allow me to take you both to breakfast."

John looked at his watch. How the hell did it get to be 7am already? Unsure he could eat, he nearly declined but quickly decided that perhaps the distraction would be worthwhile.

Mycroft led them out to a little bistro café on the corner of the street, merely nodding to the girl behind the counter as he entered. The three men took a table in the corner, decorated with a quaint check tablecloth and a small vase of fresh flowers. Seconds later, the same girl appeared with 3 coffees and a selection of breakfast pastries. Looking at them, John realised he actually was hungry and he took one eagerly.

Mycroft smiled and took a drink of his coffee. "I spoke with the doctor, Sherlock is stable. Physically, they think he will be fine but they are keeping an eye on his heart." He paused as his voice roughened. For somebody who was usually so composed; so unaffected, he was struggling to speak. Greg placed a hand over Mycroft's coffee-free one and gave the man a reassuring smile. Mycroft nodded his thanks. "They are unsure about any long-term psychological effects. These cannot be assessed until he is awake." Mycroft placed his coffee back on the table and used the free hand to lay on top of Greg's. As Mycroft's eyes met the detective's, the two of them for one short moment, might have been the only people in the café or the only people in the world.

John almost smiled as he witnessed the obvious connection between them. Almost.

The moment broke naturally and Mycroft turned back to their companion. "Doctor Hawkins has assured me that we shall be informed immediately of any change in his condition, John." he said, with rare use of John's first name.

John nodded and hoped that was enough.

The young nurse guided the man through the corridor and towards Sherlock's room.

"He is being kept sedated at the moment," she explained, motioning to the door, "so don't expect much response, but please do talk to him. He may still be aware of your presence."

"Thank you, nurse." the soft Irish tones replied.


	29. Chapter 28

Jim knew it was risky visiting Sherlock in hospital. Hiding in plain sight in a waiting room was one thing, but actually visiting his room was quite something else.

He had seen the "three" walk to the bistro and had a feeling they would be there a while, but he had positioned Sebastian so he could warn his boss if they did appear to be heading his way again anyway.

He really did not want to be seen by Mycroft Holmes. That he was certain of.

He circled the bed and took the chair alongside, pulling it close.

Sherlock. His poor Sherlock. He hadn't expected to be affected by the sight of the man laid in that cold, sterile bed. He looked so... small. So not Jim's Sherlock.

Jim slid a hand into Sherlock's, feeling the man; his body heat.

"Sherly," Jim scowled at the roughness in his own voice, "Sherly, really. What were you thinking? I never intended you to do something as stupid as _this_ !" he waved his free arm about and fought back a lump in his throat. "But Sherly, was _this ..._ even me?"

"Here I was thinking I was the only important one in your life. The person who you turned to when you needed something; someone. Even when you left me all those years ago, I knew you'd be back someday. I just knew. You and me, Sherly, we're something. You need me. We're special. We're the same."

Jim readjusted his hand, slipping his fingers, just momentarily, across Sherlock's pulse point, feeling the slow "ba-dum" beneath his fingertips.

He gently slid his hand higher, towards where the saline drip was fixed, and smoothed his fingers up to the crook of Sherlock's elbow, over skin peppered with needle scars, some old, some recent.

"This was us." he continued, flattening his hand over the scars and removing it again, as if it suddenly became too hot to touch.

Jim cleared his throat and straightened up. He was bigger than this. Better than this. His face blanked and he sat back in the chair.

"I've been hearing... stories, Sherly." he continued, his Irish tone impassive; emotionless. "Stories involving you and..." another calming pause, "you and a certain John Watson."

He wasn't expecting a reaction, of course. Sherlock probably wouldn't even be aware of the conversation they were - well, Jim was - having right now, but it was only fair to at least speak to him. After he had overheard the conversation in the waiting room - and aren't those places just full of information and gossip - he had pondered a while.

Sherlock was in love with John Watson?

He let that roll around in his head a while.

Sherlock never _loved _ anyone.

He'd never been in a relationship as far as Jim knew, and Jim had been keeping tabs on _his Sherlock_ since Sherlock had gotten clean all those years ago. If you didn't count that girl - Jim frowned - Jim had been the closest thing that Sherlock had ever had to any sort of relationship. Sure, it wasn't your conventional thing, but it was a partnership of sorts. For four years, Sherlock had needed Jim, and Jim, well Jim had used Sherlock however he damn well pleased. Which was often.

The young Holmes had gotten deeper and deeper into drug dependency until such time as Mycroft... Jim snarled at the mere thought of the interfering older brother's name... Mycroft Holmes had come and pulled Sherlock out. Away from drugs. Away from Jim.

And Jim? Jim had let it happen. He knew Sherlock - probably better than Mycroft did - and he knew that, sooner or later, Sherlock would come back to him.

It had taken longer than Jim had expected though. He'd had to amuse himself with other interests and other people, but eventually, Sherlock came back just like Jim knew he would.

But Sherlock Holmes was _in love?_ With John Watson?

John Watson. Jim had done his digging when he saw John Watson come in to Sherlock's life.

John Watson was a doctor. Trained at St. Bart's before enrolling in the army and becoming a soldier.

He toured, got shot and was invalided home from Afghanistan on an army pension.

John Watson was dependable, sensible and... normal. He was... boring.

He followed Sherlock about like a puppy; a pet.

What was there that Sherlock could _possibly_ fall in love with.

It wasn't right at all. Not. At. All.

"So, tell me, Sherly." Jim finally said, leaning in again and placing his hand on Sherlock's chest. "What is it about John Watson?" He began slowly rubbing circles over Sherlock's heart, carefully avoiding the wires and pads attached there. "What did you fall in love with? His loyalty? His _empathy_? Empathy: something you and I don't have to worry about. Or was it the way he thinks? His knowledge of all things mundane and normal?" Jim almost spat the word, as if it were disgusting.

"Or was it his heart, Sherly? Did you fall in love with the way his heart sees and loves? It's so... _ordinary _."

He pulled his hands back from the body on the bed, crossing them in front of his chest and flattening his face into a stern, contemplative expression.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. What _are_ we going to do about John Watson?"

Jim paused a while, of course not expecting a response but feeling it necessary to let that thought; that question process, even in the subconscious mind. And then he stood, leant over Sherlock and placed a single kiss on his forehead before leaving the room and heading outside.

After door to the hospital room had swung closed behind Jim Moriarty, the beeping monitors increased their pace and intensity, and Sherlock's eyes flickered open.

As a flurry of attentive hospital staff entered and swarmed around him, he just stared at the exit.


	30. Chapter 29

"He's asked to see his brother first." Doctor Hawkins addressed the three men who had returned to the hospital after a call had informed them of Sherlock's regained consciousness.

John looked as if he was about to say something, but Mycroft stepped in.

"I assure you that I shall not keep him from seeing you any longer than is necessary, John." he said, reassuringly. "Doctor Hawkins, are you able to give us any additional information about my brother's condition?" He looked to the young doctor who was trying to look inconspicuous as he studied his notes.

"Well, we haven't found any physical problems as a result of the overdose. The ventilator has been removed, and he has been drinking some fluids himself. Psychologically..." he glanced at his notes again, "we have not yet found any problems. If he shows no signs of relapse, we may be able to release him later today or tomorrow. However..." Doctor Hawkins hesitated, unsure how to address the issue of the actual overdose itself, "it may be that we recommend he be referred to a psychologist. The few words that Sherlock has spoken to us indicate that the overdose was not..." again, Doctor Hawkins scrabbled for words until a moment of 'sod this, let's just get it out' seemed to wash over him "... the overdose was not accidental. You brother, Mr Holmes, appears to have intended to overdose. This will need addressing, of course."

Doctor Hawkins was looking at Mycroft while trying actually not to look at the man. Mycroft, of course, was quite used to this and didn't call the man on it.

"Thank you, Doctor Hawkins." he said, with a nod and a clear tone of dismissal. The doctor returned the nod and left quickly.

Mycroft looked first at Greg and then to John who was stood biting his bottom lip. "I shall talk with my brother, John." Mycroft spoke, voice subdued in the light of the confirmation of what he had already suspected. His brother was an experienced addict. Even if he had been clean in recent years, he would never have been so careless as to have overdosed accidentally. It suddenly dawned on him that Sherlock hadn't been trying to escape the feelings as a temporary measure at all. This could be a long road.

John didn't respond, but Greg looked across at Mycroft and took his hand, squeezing it gently with his own. As Mycroft turned to approach his brother's room, he momentarily turned back and gave Greg a soft kiss. "Thank you, Gregory." he whispered to the detective before turning again and walking away.

As Mycroft left, Greg glanced across at John who gave him a smile which the detective wasn't entirely sure about. "You OK?" he asked the doctor. The news that Sherlock's overdose may have been deliberate was sure to have been difficult to John to hear. He already felt responsible for what had happened. They both did.

John snapped himself out of what seemed like a daydream, or a waking nightmare, and gave a slightly more believable smile. "Let's wait in here." he suggested, motioning to a small family room close by which was now vacant. Mycroft would be a while anyway. He was sure that the elder Holmes would have plenty to say to Sherlock about... well, about all of this madness.

"Do you think he tried to kill himself because of me?" John eventually asked after they had been sat in the room for a couple of quiet minutes.

Greg turned to John, trying to assess his frame of mind before answering.

"I don't know, mate," he began honestly, "but I doubt that Sherlock would do something this stupid just because of this." he concluded considerably less honestly. He really didn't think that being in love with John, even if Sherlock thought it would be forever unrequited, would drive Sherlock to want to kill himself. "There might be other factors involved." he continued, "I just don't know what... or who. Perhaps he will open up to Mycroft."

John's eyebrows raised at the unlikelihood of that. "I hope so." he replied.

When Sherlock next squinted his eyes open against the glare of the room, his brother was there. Mycroft leant towards his little brother and put a hand on his arm.

"Sherlock." he said, his voice filled with concern but still keeping an air of detachment. "Sherlock," he repeated, "Why?"

Sherlock turned his head towards Mycroft and in his eyes, the elder could see pain. Pain, sorrow and grief and... regret. Mycroft nodded. "Gregory told me..." he continued, turning his eyes from Sherlock's so his little brother wouldn't feel under scrutiny, "..about John."

Sherlock let out a long sigh. John.

_"What are we going to do about John Watson?"_

The Irish sing-song voice echoed in his mind. He swallowed awkwardly through his rough, dry throat before speaking.

"Jim was here."

Mycroft's eyes darted up to once again meet Sherlock's. This time, instead of pain and guilt, he saw fear. "Jim Moriarty?" he questioned although he knew full well who his brother meant.

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow briefly before his face returned to worry. It was certainly an expression that Mycroft had rarely seen on his little brother.

"He knows too." Sherlock added, lowering his head again.

Mycroft sat back in the hospital-issue armchair and groaned. Jim Moriarty. This was just what Sherlock didn't need. How did he find out about any of this? Mycroft needed answers, and he resolved to get some people onto it, but first, he needed some things clearing up by Sherlock himself.

"You've been seeing Jim Moriarty." Mycroft said. More of a statement than a question, but one for which he fully expected an honest reply from his brother.

Sherlock raised his head again but didn't look at Mycroft. He stared at the door to the hospital room as if he hoped somebody would enter and spare him the inquisition that he knew was imminent.

"Only in recent days." he finally responded. "He supplied me and..."

"You repaid him." Mycroft interrupted curtly. He knew how it worked between Sherlock and Jim. The same way it had always worked between Sherlock and Jim. Mycroft had watched his brother be drawn into it during university and it took him several years before he was in a position to be able to pull his little brother out of the cycle of abuse that he was trapped in. And then, of course, there was Suzette.

"I made a mistake, Mycroft, and I need to start fixing it." Sherlock admitted, not even sounding as though it pained him to do so. Sherlock was ready to move on. "I think I need to speak to John now, please."


	31. Chapter 30

Mycroft's mind was preoccupied as he travelled in the back of the black town car with Greg. He had made some calls to various people after leaving the hospital, to see what he could dig up on Jim Moriarty and his current whereabouts and dealings. He obviously wanted to insert himself back into Sherlock's life somehow, and Mycroft was more than a little worried about how Moriarty might try to do that.

"You OK, Myc?" Greg asked, placing a hand on the man's knee.

Mycroft gave a sincere smile. He was grateful to have Gregory close by, and he felt lucky to have found himself enjoying a relatively stress-free relationship. He rested his own hand on Gregory's.

"I'm fine, Gregory. Thank you."

Greg nodded, giving the knee a squeeze. Mycroft drew in a quick breath at the increased contact. Greg noticed and smiled. "Look," he started, "I know that you have a lot on your mind. This Jim Moriarty guy clearly has a history with Sherlock and you and none of it good. It's OK if you just drop me back at the Yard so you can do what you need to do."

Mycroft shifted in his seat and turned to face the detective. Greg saw in those blue-grey eyes, blown pupils and desire. He felt his own level of arousal increase in response and was about to speak again when Mycroft leant in and pressed their lips firmly together. Breaths quickened and hands began grasping and jacket lapels and collars. Greg deftly flicked open Mycroft's waistcoat and slipped his hands inside, sliding his fingertips so tauntingly close to bare flesh, separated only by the expensive shirt fabric.

After a short while, Mycroft pulled back and, staring deep into Greg's deep brown eyes, he leaned his forehead to the detective's. "What you do to me, Gregory." he stated, breathy and panting.

"My office has instructions to contact me immediately should there be any update on the situation." Mycroft gave a hand signal to the driver in the rear mirror, and the driver nodded.

"I think I would like it very much," he continued, "if you would come back to my place with me."

John slipped into Sherlock's hospital room, unsure whether he would find the detective awake and alert or sleeping again. He needn't have worried though, because Sherlock was sat up in bed, ruthlessly deducing and bossing around a poor nurse who looked flustered and more than a little tearful.

John rolled his eyes. "I apologise for my friend, nurse." he began, noticing the young girl's bottom lip wobble, "He is not himself right now." The nurse nodded and smiled at John's accompanying wink as she exited the room.

"You really should be nicer to the staff, Sherlock." John said, taking the seat next to him and pulling it closer. However this discussion went, it was going to be tricky and he didn't want Sherlock to think he was deliberately distancing himself from his friend.

"She needed to know that her boyfriend was seeing the radiographer, John. The _male_ radiographer!" Sherlock tried a smile but his face settled as uncertain. John, of course, didn't miss this for one second. "How are you feeling?" he asked, changing the subject while still avoiding the real 'elephant in the room'.

The young man shrugged. "Been better." he replied, his deep baritone sounding gravelly and harsh. "Can I leave yet?"

The question sounded more like a plea made by a small child who wants to go home to Mummy, and in that moment, John was reminded why they were there.

"Soon, Sherlock. The doctor said maybe later today, but more likely tomorrow. It depends how you are, you know that."

Sherlock nodded. Of course he knew. It wasn't the first time he had been admitted to hospital after an overdose although he freely admitted to himself that it was the first time the overdose had been intentional. He looked at John, noticing that he was looking edgy, as if he had something to say but couldn't figure out how to say it.

"You know, don't you?" Sherlock said, realising what the 'thing' was. It was obvious really. Greg knew, Mycroft knew, it stood to reason that one of them would have told John.

He lowered his head, not willing to meet John's eye, and he realised that he actually felt scared. Scared of what John would think; what John would do; how John would react.

Would he laugh? Would he be disgusted? He wasn't gay. John had repeated time and time again that he wasn't gay and he was never Sherlock's date. Always so adamant to make sure everybody knew. And then there was Sarah, of course. Would he mock? Would he... Sherlock shuddered at the thought... Would he leave?

John reached across and lifted Sherlock's lowered chin with his hand. Hands which had softened back into kind doctor hands after the harshness of being army hands.

As John raised Sherlock's head, he looked at him; really looked at him. In Sherlock's eyes he could see every emotion that the young man felt and it was new. It was new to John to see such intensity of emotion from Sherlock Holmes. He saw pain and uncertainty. He saw a little lost boy who so desperately wanted not to get hurt. He looked right at Sherlock Holmes and he saw love. And more importantly, he _felt_ it.

"Sherlock," he began, swallowing around a lump in his throat. "Sherlock, it's OK. It's all fine. I am not leaving. I will _never_ leave you."


	32. Chapter 31

"You're sure you won't be missed at the office?" Greg slung his jacket over the back of the sofa and unbuttoned his cuffs.

"I am certain, Gregory." Mycroft's confident reply came back from the hall. "I also took the liberty of clearing your schedule for the remainder of the day. I hope you don't mind?" He reappeared in the living room and crossed to the drinks cabinet.

"Oh. Well, right. No. That's fine." Greg stumbled over his reply. It felt weird that anybody could have that sort of influence over his work, but he supposed it wasn't a bad thing. It certainly didn't feel like a bad thing as he took in Mycroft's casual manner.

"Drink?" Mycroft offered, lifting the Scotch bottle.

"Um, yeah, sure. Thanks." The whole scenario was eerily reminiscent of two evenings previous, and Greg could already feel pinpricks of arousal through his body.

Mycroft poured two crystal tumblers of Scotch and passed one across to Greg.

"It's been an eventful couple of days." he stated, taking a long drink of the amber fluid.

Greg chuckled and nodded. "That it has." he agreed readily. It had been a crazy week, but he couldn't help thinking that things were working themselves out.

John knew about Sherlock. The air had been cleared with regards to both the feelings Sherlock had for John and his drug taking, and John seemed confident that everything would work out OK. And then there was Mycroft. The government official brother of his long-time friend who had become his lover in such a short time. Greg smiled as they stood by the fireplace. _Where it all began_, he thought.

He placed his glass decisively on the mantel and moved towards Mycroft, removing his glass from his hand and putting it alongside his own.

"Mycroft." he said, unsure what he was going to say next but needing to say something; _anything._ He took hold of Mycroft's hands and lowered his head, as if studying their intermingled fingers.

"Gregory." Mycroft smiled, noting the level of desire that was plainly evident, even in his partner's down-turned face.

"Gregory," he repeated, "would you... could we..." he stuttered, unsure what exactly he wanted and even less sure how to ask for it. "Perhaps we could move to my bedroom?"

Greg let out a breath he was unaware of holding and raised his head to Mycroft's, returning the smile.

"I would like that very much." he replied, and he pulled Mycroft towards him, wrapping his arms around his partner's back and crushing their lips together in a desperate kiss.

He wanted this so much. He wanted Mycroft so badly. He hadn't been with a man for so long, but he had been with men before when he was much younger. Before his failed marriage. He never imagined he would find another man who would want to be with him as much as he wanted it.

He groaned into the kiss and pressed his hips to the taller man's, gasping as he felt Mycroft's arousal hard against his own.

"I think..." Mycroft panted, between peppered kisses, "it would be best if we moved...soon?"

He seemed uncertain; nervous almost, but Gregory just smiled at him. "If you're not sure, Myc?" he asked, wanting so badly not to screw this up.

"Gregory, I am absolutely sure. I am." he reassured, taking his lover's hands again and pulling him out into the hall.

Mycroft led Greg up the stairs and along a plushly carpeted hall before swinging open a door and dragging Greg inside.

"Welcome," he said mockingly, "to my humble abode!"

"Nice!" Greg chuckled. The place was far from humble. The entire house was more like a palace, but he couldn't admit to being surprised by that. He was fairly sure that someone of Mycroft Holmes' stature and influence would demand nothing less.

Mycroft led him to the oversized bed and sat on the side, pulling Greg in front of him. Slowly, he began undoing the buttons on Greg's shirt, sliding it off his shoulders before working on his own. Before long, both men was bare-chested, breaths coming heavy and fast. They both wanted to make this last but neither was sure if they could.

As Mycroft reached his hands down and began to undo Greg's trousers, Greg grabbed his hands, stilling them a moment.

"Are you absolutely certain about this?" he repeated, needing to hear it again and hoping his own nerves didn't show through in the question.

Mycroft raised his eye's to Greg's, seeing not only obvious arousal but also something else: anxiety? apprehension?

"If you're not...?" Mycroft responded, not wanting to pressurise the detective if he himself didn't feel ready.

"Oh god, Mycroft." Greg breathed, pressing his lips to the man's auburn hair. "You have no idea how much I want this."

Mycroft smiled and continued removing Greg's trousers, pushing them down. He couldn't fail to notice the man's erection bulging in his pants, and he quickly removed his own trousers and slung them aside. Greg stood between his legs and slowly pushed his lover backwards, before climbing on top of him on the huge bed.

He glanced down to make sure that Mycroft was happy with his position at the bottom and, seeing only heavy-lidded eyes and a blissful smile, decided to continue. He gently lowered himself down towards the man's body until he was completely covering him and he could grind their erections together, only pants separating them, in a torturous dance of friction.

"God..." Mycroft gasp, unused to the sensation of another man's hardness against his own. "It's so..."

Gregory moaned against his lover's shoulder. He was so aroused that he wasn't sure he could last long.

"I know, Myc." he panted, lifting slightly before sliding his length against the one below. "I can't..."

Mycroft wrapped one hand around the detective's neck, curling fingers in the silver-grey hair and pulling his head in for a breathy kiss. The other hand snaked around to Gregory's lower back, pushing their groins together to moans of _"more...more...oh god yes..."_

As Mycroft approached his climax with his mouth broken from Gregory's in a silent cry, his lover's completion swiftly followed with Gregory's back arched and a long groan of _"Mycroft..."_


	33. Chapter 32

**24 hours later**

"Tea?" John asked from the kitchen, as Mycroft and Greg entered the living room at 221B.

"Please." Greg shouted through. Mycroft merely nodded, taking Sherlock's chair by the fireplace and resting his umbrella alongside, tip on the floor and handle rotating slowly beneath his fingers. Greg debated taking John's chair but instead, pulled up a desk chair alongside Mycroft. John turned from the kitchen and smiled at the couple.

"They are releasing him at around 5pm, John." Mycroft imparted, "I have spoken to Doctor Hawkins, and we have come to an understanding that, after they finish the tests, he is better off recuperating at home."

John turned again to Mycroft from his position by the kettle. "I bet the hospital staff agree with that too!" he laughed. Mycroft gave a forced smile. "Indeed."

"They have some final tests to do before he leaves, and they anticipate that he should be able to leave by around midday tomorrow. I trust you will be available to collect him at that time, John? I shall provide a car, of course. At say, 4.30pm?"

John nodded from the kitchen. "Of course, Mycroft. Thank you." He turned to bring two teas into the living room, placing them beside the men. "If you wish either Gregory or I to come along also..." Mycroft began, but John held up a hand as he brought through his own tea and sat in his chair opposite.

"It's not necessary, Mycroft, thank you. I appreciate the offer, I do. I'm sure Sherlock does. But I think we need to get settled into whatever this..." he motioned around 221B, "is going to become. I know Sherlock is worried that I will leave him. I suspect you have similar concerns." Mycroft's eyebrow twitched, but he remained silent. Greg just gave a small head shake, and so John took the cue to continue.

"I can assure you that I am not going to leave Sherlock or make his life difficult in any way. I care deeply for him and, while I know that in the past, I have adamantly declared my heterosexuality, and I can't deny that I was somewhat shocked when Greg told me how Sherlock felt, but I have to confess that my feelings towards Sherlock are..." he paused. He wasn't entirely sure how to explain these feelings himself. "Well, they are genuine anyway, and I have no intention of hurting him in any way. I guess we will just have to see how things pan out."

Greg nodded with a broad smile. That was the best anyone could hope for, and he was certain that Sherlock would go for that. John cared for him. It was plain for the world to see that there was a deep connection between them, and John had obviously, in the light of all this, decided to just go with it. He clasped a hand over Mycroft's, reassured at its warmth.

* * *

"Did you sort it?" Jim turned to Sebastian as he entered the hotel room. "Did you get set up?"

Sebastian nodded and handed Jim a piece of paper. A schedule. "He is being released at about 5 o'clock, boss." he began, "and the brother is sending a car for Mr Watson at 4.30. They... Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade, that is... left Baker Street about 30 minutes ago. Mr Holmes went to his office and DI Lestrade is at the Yard. Everything is set up ready. Good to go whenever you need it."

Jim nodded. "Good work, Sebby." He smiled. Good, this was all going according to plan.

* * *

Sherlock was indeterminately bored in the hospital. He was sick to death of doctors and nurses; prodding and poking; and questions. Oh god, the questions. Doctors; nurses; police. Greg was notable by his absence. Sherlock presumed that he was being kept out of it because he was his friend (and, of course, it was plain as the nose on your face that he had become involved with Mycroft. Sherlock rolled his eyes.)

Some other inspector, a DI Dimmock, had visited him with questions about his dealer. Too many questions. How? Why? Who? When? How much?

Sherlock kept quiet. Mycroft could handle it. The fewer people who got involved with Jim Moriarty the better.

Jim.

Sherlock wondered. Jim had visited. Sherlock didn't have a clear memory of Jim coming in so he supposed he had missed at least part of the visit, but he had a perfectly clear recollection of some of it. Jim knew. Jim knows. He knows about John.

Sherlock knew that Mycroft would understand the gravity of that. Mycroft had been equally suspicious of Jim's involvement in Suzette's death, but he had failed to find any way to tie him to it or even to have it ruled as anything other than a tragic suicide.

Sherlock slumped back against his pillows. And now Jim knows how Sherlock feels about John.

He closed his eyes and groaned and, for the first time in his life, prayed that Mycroft could keep his friend safe.


	34. Chapter 33

Jim watched the doctor and nurse leave Sherlock's room and head away down the corridor before slipping inside. John would be at Baker Street for a few hours yet and Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade, well, they were 'preoccupied' with their own little tryst.

Sherlock looked up as the door opened and instantly shuffled himself back on the bed, as if it aided him in getting away from Jim at all.

"Sherly!" Jim cried out, "So good to see you!"

Sherlock flinched, eyeing Jim suspiciously.

"What do you want, Jim?" he asked, only half-wanting an answer and glancing to the door in the vain hope that someone; _anyone_ would enter.

Jim rounded the bed and pulled the chair up close, sitting on it and leaning his elbows on the sheets, almost brushing up against Sherlock's legs. Sherlock was still being monitored and the wires prevented him from doing what he really wanted to do - run away.

"Now, Sherly." Jim began, lowering a hand onto Sherlock's leg, leaving them separated only by a thin white sheet and a hospital blanket. Sherlock's barely suppressed shudder didn't escape notice.

"Sherlock," he purred, slowly stroking his hand along the young Holmes' frozen thigh, "You know what I want." He cocked an eyebrow questioningly, and Sherlock dropped his head. He did know. He always knew what Jim Moriarty wanted. Jim wanted Sherlock. His fucktoy. He would always want him because they were the same. Two geniuses trapped in an ordinary, boring world.

For a time, Sherlock used to believe that they were destined to be together. Not as lovers or a real relationship. Just as partners. A mutual arrangement. Satisfactory for each of them. Better than nothing. Better than... no one.

"Things have changed." Sherlock said, as much to himself as to Jim. "I'm not that person any more." Saying that made Sherlock feel apprehensive. He knew Jim wouldn't be happy to just let it all go. After all, he was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it.

Jim sat back on the chair and just looked at Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. Except this Sherlock wasn't his any more. He was John Watson's? Or he wanted to be. Jim took a moment to decide how he felt about that.

"John Watson." he stated, after a period of uncomfortable silence.

Sherlock's head shot up, and he glared at Jim. He would love to say that the glare was threatening but, in actuality, it was more tinged with fear. He'd been right then. He hadn't imagined it. Jim did know about John.

"He has nothing to do with this." Sherlock responded, levelling his voice and blanking his face. He did not need Jim to be reading everything he was thinking right now. He had to proceed with caution.

"Oh Sherly," Jim smiled, leaning forwards with a sneer and placing a hand on Sherlock's bare arm, "he has _everything_ to do with this." He gave the arm a squeeze, resisting Sherlock's flinch as he tried to pull his arm free.

"It can't be allowed, Sherlock." the Irishman said calmly. "This John Watson, he's not like you. He's not like... _us_. He won't ever truly understand you like I do. Do you honestly think he could love you back? That he could give you what you want. What you _need_?"

"I know what you need, Sherlock. I have always known. Even after you left me, I always knew what you needed. I think you know too." Jim removed his hand from Sherlock and stood from the chair. He rounded the bed, looking at the floor and breathing deeply, trying to keep himself calm.

"John Watson can't be allowed to continue getting between us. You're mine, Sherlock. You're mine or you're no one's." Sherlock's eyes followed Jim's movement, tracking every pace, every twitch, every heartbeat. The man was rattled; disturbed.

"If you insist on keeping up your affiliation with Captain John Watson," Jim spat the doctor's army rank as he turned his head towards Sherlock's, from his position by the door, "be warned that there will be very serious consequences. For both of you."

Jim let his parting words hang for a moment and then disappeared out into the maze of hospital corridors.

Sherlock took a deep breath and felt the tension leave his body as Jim's footsteps grew more distant.

The sooner he got out of hospital and back to Baker Street, the better.


	35. Chapter 34

As John sat in the back of the black town car that Mycroft had sent for him, he ran over the past few days' events in his mind. All of this madness; Sherlock's mood changes; his erratic behaviour; the... the drugs; all of it was because of Sherlock's feelings for John.

Sherlock was in love with him.

He let that process for a while. He'd honestly thought about little else since Greg had told him, but he just gave himself a few minutes, in the car on the way to the hospital, to really _think_ about that impact of the news.

The more he thought about it, the more sick he felt. Responsible. He felt responsible. If he'd only noticed something; said something. If he'd just...

_Dammit, John_, he thought. _Pull yourself together_.

What ifs wouldn't help anybody now. What was important now was what John decided to do next.

He nodded to himself.

_That _, he knew.

* * *

"What time is John coming?" Sherlock asked the doctor as he gave his patient the final once-over and signed his release papers. Mycroft had said John would be coming to collect him, but it couldn't happen soon enough. He just wanted to get back; get home to 221B; to John.

"Soon, Mr Holmes." the weary doctor replied, glancing at his watch. _Not soon enough_, he thought to himself, eager to rid himself of the younger Holmes as a patient _and_ the elder as a 'concerned relative'. The Holmes brothers both made him anxious.

No sooner had Doctor Hawkins closed the door behind him, it reopened again and John entered.

He looked at Sherlock who was sat on the bed, legs swinging over the side like a five-year-old and grinning at him with a genuine smile.

"You're looking better." the doctor nodded, noting what colour Sherlock usually had was back in his cheeks. "Ready?"

John crossed to the bed and took Sherlock's arm, steadying him as he stood. "Definitely." the detective acknowledged, letting John support his weight as they walked. "I presume my brother sent a car?"

John nodded, leading his flatmate along the corridors and out into the cool early evening air. They had barely set foot outside the door before the black car pulled alongside.

John guided Sherlock in and rounded to get in the other side, dipping his head in acknowledgement to the driver.

The usually 15 minute drive would be nearer to 30 at this time of day, so John steeled himself for what could be awkward conversation.

_Better now, when he can't avoid it _, John decided. He cleared his throat and gave a firm smile to his friend, hoping to allay any anxieties that Sherlock might have.

Sherlock knew, of course. He knew this was coming. This talk. He knew.

"John." A single word. It's all he could come up with. It's pretty much all he had left to say. No "sorry", no blame, no excuses. Nothing. There was only one thought in his head. Just "John".

John reached across to the trembling detective and placed a calming hand on his leg. "It's OK, Sherlock," he began, giving the flesh beneath his fingers a slight squeeze and feeling tense muscles relax at the touch.

"It's OK. I know you must be wondering what on earth I'm thinking." A slightly nervous chuckle escaped John as he realised how completely bizarre this whole situation was.

"I know we have a lot to talk about. About what has happened and about..." he hesitated, unsure whether to remind his friend, "...about Jim. We can discuss all that when we get home, OK?"

A single nod from the detective. He was too tired to deal with the trauma of _that _ conversation right now.

John took the nod as a sign to continue. "I can only imagine how it must have felt all those times that I adamantly declared that we weren't a couple to everybody. 'Not his boyfriend', 'not his date'... and then, Sarah..." he felt Sherlock flinch with each echo of their past.

_"Not his boyfriend"_

_"Not his date"_

_"Sarah..."_

"What I'm trying to say, Sherlock," John continued, trying not to let his confidence shake to the point that he couldn't carry on, "is that I was wrong. I was... blind."

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, his head tipped to one side and his eyebrow raised questioningly.

"John?" that word again. That single point in his universe; in his life.

"I can't promise that I know exactly what this is, Sherlock. It's all new to me. What I do know is that I feel it. I feel the thing between us. There is something, and I don't know what it is, but I do know that I want to find out."

A small, hesitant smile slipped across Sherlock tired face, and as he closed his eyes and dropped his head onto his flatmate's shoulder, a single tear slipped down his cheek.


	36. Chapter 35

Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen when the two men entered. On seeing Sherlock flop down onto the worn sofa, she hurried through with two teas and a tray of fresh biscuits.

"Oh Sherlock," she fussed, fighting back the tears, "We were so desperately worried about you."

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Much as he hated being fussed over, he had to expect it under the circumstances. What he'd done... well, it was serious. It could have been so much more; so much... worse.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." he smiled, leaning into the arm she had wrapped around his shoulder. As he reached across and took a biscuit, she stood and flashed a genuinely relieved smile at John. "It's good to have you boys back. If you need anything, just give me a shout." she offered, exiting the room and heading back downstairs.

John shifted his tea from the side table, placing it on the coffee table alongside Sherlock's own. Sliding onto the sofa next to his flatmate, he turned to study Sherlock's expression.

"It's OK." he reassured, hoping that if he said it enough, Sherlock might start really believing it.

The detective nodded. He believed John. He did. It's just... it wasn't entirely OK. Not yet.

"John," he began, returning his cup to the table and leaning back with a long sigh, "It's not _all_ OK."

"Jim?" John asked, sitting back alongside his flatmate. They were having this discussion now then. Better sooner than later, he supposed. He steeled himself for whatever Sherlock had to share.

"Jim." Sherlock stated, leaning his head sideways against the firm support of John's shoulder. "He threatened me. Well, actually, he threatened both of us."

John sighed. Why couldn't life just give them both a break? Mycroft had said he would leave it to Sherlock to fill John in about Jim Moriarty, but really, how bad could it be?

"OK," he responded after a moment, "and do you really think his threats will come to anything? I mean, I've been threatened plenty of times in my life, Sherlock. What makes this any different?"

Sherlock raised his chin on John's shoulder so he could see his friend's face before lowering it again.

Then he took a deep breath and proceeded to tell him everything about his time at university. His drugs, his relationship with Jim Moriarty, and about Suzette.

* * *

"You're absolutely certain?" Mycroft barked at the employee. He wouldn't stand for uncertainty. This was important information. It was absolutely crucial that he get nothing wrong and leave no stone unturned.

The young man stood firm and tall. "Mr Holmes, sir. I double-checked the information myself. Mr Sebastian Moran appears to have been in the employ of Jim Moriarty for some considerable time. We have traced their affiliation back as far as their university days. They appear to have been frequenting several places locally in recent days." The man hesitated as he handed Mycroft a print-out before continuing, unsure of the reaction to the following news. "I did also find some reference to Mr Sherlock Holmes naming Mr Moran as a person of interest in the death of a Suzette Walker however it does seem that this line of enquiry was dismissed by investigators at the time."

"Thank you, Mr Stanley" Mycroft replied absently, with a flick of the hand to dismiss the man.

As the door closed behind his employee, Mycroft sank back into his chair. Sebastian Moran. There's a name he hadn't expected to come across again. After he had pulled his brother from that life all those years ago, he truly believed that the Holmes family was done with Jim Moriarty. And to find out now that Sebastian Moran was in the area and still working with Moriarty.

This wasn't good.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock had strong suspicions that Sebastian Moran had been responsible for Suzette's death but neither man had any way to prove it.

Now that Jim was making threats against John and Sherlock, Moran's presence was truly worrying.

He re-opened his laptop and began typing instructions to various employees. He needed to get tabs of both Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran as quickly as possible.

Before it was too late

* * *

John was exhausted. He had listened calmly to Sherlock's stories about university and Jim and the sheer volume of information; the emotions that the information drew out of him exhausted him.

"Police never investigated Moriarty's link to Suzette's death?" he questioned. He couldn't get his head around it.

Sherlock shrugged. "It seems that Jim had influential contacts." he responded blankly. "Mycroft tried. But he was still quite junior at the time. It was all he could do to eventually get me out..." Sherlock trailed off. He was tired. Emotionally drained. He yawned widely and John smiled.

"I think you need to sleep, Sherlock." he brushed his hand along the detective's arm, squeezing gently.

Sherlock nodded wearily and started to stand. John leapt up ahead of him, grasping his flatmate's forearm and allowing him to lean on him slightly as they headed through to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock's stomach flipped as he got close, unsure of what kind of state the room would be in, but he let out an audible sigh when they entered the tidy bedroom.

"I cleaned up for you." John said easily, not making an issue out of it. "Will you be OK?"

Sherlock slid down on to the bed and looked at John.

"Thank you, John." he whispered. He felt drained. Much as he didn't want John to leave, he really needed to sleep. He just hoped sleep would come easily and peacefully to him.

"I'll be outside in the kitchen for a few hours if you need me." John offered, heading towards the hall and standing momentarily in the doorway.

"We'll discuss more in the morning. Meantime, just get some rest." The doctor exited the room and pulled the door close behind him.

Sherlock looked around his room. John had removed all traces of the events that had happened in there. Sherlock was grateful for that and wondered just how much more he would need to ask John to do for him.

He changed into his pyjamas and pulled back the covers. As he did so, he noticed something drop onto the floor at the end of the bed. His phone. He had forgotten. He hadn't needed it in the past few days and he only had a vague recollection of it before waking in hospital.

He leaned across the bed and picked it up. The battery was very low but it was still working. 6 new messages.

He felt the bile rise in his throat as he debated whether to read them. He knew it wouldn't be Mycroft, John or Greg because he'd seen them. That only left one person they could be from.

Sherlock sat on his bed, back against the wall, and began to scroll down the messages, newest first.

He hadn't scrolled past the first message before he was running to the bathroom, retching into the toilet and anxiously whispering, "John..."


	37. Chapter 36

"Lestrade", Greg swept his hands across his face as he answered his phone for the umpteenth time that day. Having the previous day off with Mycroft was great until it came to being back at work. There was so much stuff backed up that it felt like he'd be working nights for a week to catch up. Now, it was 11pm and Greg wondered if he'd ever get home.

"I apologise, Gregory, if I am disturbing you."

Greg let out a weary sigh of relief. Mycroft. One person he could stand to talk to right now.

"Not at all, Mycroft." he replied, not even trying to hide the smile behind his voice. "Being disturbed by you is the best kind of disturbance."

Mycroft chuckled. Something only Gregory could make him do.

"Well, I confess this is something of a business call, Gregory," he continued, biting his lower lip as the voice of his lover affected him. _We are like teenagers_, he thought, rolling his eyes at himself. "I have some rather significant information about Jim Moriarty that I think we ought to discuss. Are you available to come to Baker Street in the morning?"

Greg sat up straight in his desk chair. Jim Moriarty. He didn't know much about the man, but what he did know wasn't good.

"Of course." he responded without hesitation. If Mycroft and Sherlock needed him, he would be there.

"Thank you, Gregory." Mycroft breathed out a long breath. "I shall send a car to your home at 9am?" He was hesitant, unsure if he might be crossing a line.

"Actually, Mycroft", Greg responded, fiddling with his jacket cuff nervously, "maybe the car could take us both? From your place?"

Mycroft smiled and let out a faint laugh. "Are you inviting yourself over, Detective Inspector?" he asked mockingly, emphasising Greg's professional title.

Greg suddenly felt uncertain, wondering if he'd crossed a line himself. "Well, ummm..." he stuttered, "I just thought... I've been working constantly since I arrived this morning. I haven't stopped even to eat and..."

Mycroft cut him off, "Gregory", he started, keeping his voice calm despite the butterflies he felt in his stomach, "you are always welcome at my home. I shall send my car for you in 30 minutes. I just need to finish here at the office myself."

Greg swallowed hard and felt his breathing quicken. "Thanks, Myc." he concluded. "I'll see you soon."

* * *

_24 hours, Sherlock._

Sherlock re-read the latest message again, checking the date and time stamp before scrolling down to the previous one.

_This can't be allowed to continue, Sherly. _

and the next message down

_You will leave with me or John will suffer._

This wasn't good. Jim actually expected Sherlock to leave with him?

He felt fear bubble up in his chest at the very clear threat to John.

He closed his incoming messages and brought up a new message prompt.

_We need to talk - SH_

His finger hovered over the send button. He couldn't do this on his own. He needed help, but he loathed asking it of his brother.

He couldn't ignore Jim's threat though. Not this time.

Sherlock pressed send, and almost instantly, a reply came back.

_We shall be there at 9.30am, Sherlock - MH_

We. The use of the plural wasn't lost on Sherlock.

So that means Mycroft _and_ Greg would be calling round.

Of course, Sherlock had noticed the thing between them.

He may have been compromised over the past few days, but he wasn't blind. Two minutes with his brother had revealed all, and Mycroft had made no attempt to disguise it.

Sherlock was pleased for them. He wondered, briefly, whether he might have felt differently if it wasn't for John's reaction but no, he was pleased for his brother and his friend.

If only because having his brother otherwise occupied with his own life kept him from meddling in Sherlock's.

Except now, of course, he needed Mycroft's help. He groaned at the thought of having to even ask for it.

Sherlock knew that Jim wouldn't be easy to handle.

Sherlock had never won with Jim.

Jim controlled Sherlock.

Even in his absence, Sherlock felt inferior to Jim.

He slowly made his way back into the bedroom and sat himself down on the cool sheets of his bed.

He suddenly felt very alone.

Despite having John's support and, he hoped, help from Mycroft and Greg, Sherlock still felt as though mentally, it was him against Jim.

Jim knew Sherlock. He knew his weaknesses. He knew how to play him; how to use him; how to win.

Sherlock barely stifled a sob before cursing himself for being so weak.

_When did I get so sentimental?_ he thought to himself, dropping his head back to bang slightly too hard against the wall behind him.

"Sherlock?" a questioning voice came from outside his door. "You okay?" A soft knock on the door followed.

Sherlock swallowed around the lump of sentimentality in his throat and rolled his eyes at himself. He stood and crossed to the door, opening it to find John, dressed in striped pyjamas and face lined with concern.

He couldn't help smiling at the sight of his worried flatmate.

"John." he said quietly.

"You okay, Sherlock?" John repeated on seeing the detectives slightly crumpled and, despite smiling, anxious-looking appearance.

Sherlock nodded and stepped away from the doorway, leaving it open. An invitation.

"I am having trouble switching off." he replied calmly, crossing back to his bed again and sitting back down.

"Right. Yes. I wondered if that might be a problem." John raised an eyebrow as he entered the bedroom and approached his flatmate, waiting to see Sherlock's reaction to his intrusion. Was he expecting it? Would he be surprised? Would he object?

A long sigh from Sherlock as he laid himself down, indicated that he wasn't disturbed by the doctor's presence, and John took this as an indication to keep going. He stopped by the side of the bed and sat himself alongside the lanky detective's stretched out body.

"I could give you a sleeping pill?" he suggested, knowing that it really wasn't the best suggestion, but it was something.

Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't want a sleeping pill. He knew what he wanted, but he wasn't sure how to ask for it.

He curled himself slightly and rolled to face the wall.

John nodded. He knew too.

Slowly, he lowered himself down next to his flatmate.

As the bed dipped behind him, Sherlock smiled.

A warm, strong arm crept around his waist and a quiet voice whispered in his ear.

"Shhhhh, I've got you, Sherlock. Close your eyes and get some sleep."


	38. Chapter 37

**Following evening at 9pm.**

"You sure you don't want to come too?" John asked Sherlock the following evening as he pulled on his jacket. "Greg did invite both of us."

Sherlock looked up from the laptop and shook his head.

"I think I would rather stay here." Sherlock responded. He really did not have any desire to be sociable in a pub environment. "I'm going to catch up on a few blog comments and check on the experiment I have running."

John nodded. He knew Sherlock wouldn't want to come, but he did feel he ought to check.

"Right, well, I'll be back about midnight. Text if you want anything, OK?"

Sherlock grunted in agreement. He was glad of the opportunity for some peace and quiet. Much as he was enjoying the new-found calmer feeling that he had around John, his flatmate was being something a Mother Hen around him today.

"I'll be fine." he called after John, as the doctor headed down the stairs and out of 221.

John debated hailing a taxi but the road was rather quiet, and by the time he'd reached the end of the street, he still hadn't seen one pass by.

_Might as well walk the few blocks to the pub now, _he thought, shrugging his shoulders in defeat.

He hadn't got too much further down the road when a black town car pulled up.

_Bloody Mycroft_, John cursed under his breath. He should have known that he'd be watching and wouldn't let John out without making his presence felt.

The car slowed to a stop, and John opened the rear door and climbed in.

As he pulled the door closed behind him, he heard the central locking whirr shut.

John raised an eyebrow and turned to Anthea.

Wait, not Anthea.

"Who the hell are...?" John was cut off as the back seat passenger raised a weapon to his head.

"My employer, Mr Moriarty, would love to meet you."

* * *

"Sebby!" Jim shouted excitedly as Moran pushed the warehouse doors open and pulled in a reluctant John Watson, hands tied behind his back.

"You've brought me a present!" His Irish voice sing-songed through the emptiness of the space, and Jim's smile broadened further as he crossed over to John who was putting up something of a fight with Moran.

"Jim Moriarty, I presume." John spat out, aiming a kick towards his captor but missing spectacularly as Moran swung at him, sending him off-balance and crashing to the floor.

"Sebby!" Jim scolded. "Please handle my things with care!"

John laughed. "Yours?" he asked, struggling to get himself back into a sitting position with the limited use he had of his arms.

Jim crouched down alongside the doctor, grabbing his chin with his hand and forcing him to look in his eyes.

"Well, well, Doctor Watson," he began, "You are a feisty one, aren't you? I'm starting to see what Sherlock sees in you now."

Jim roughly released John's face, stood up and began pacing across the warehouse.

"You don't scare me, Mr Moriarty." John shuffled himself back across the floor, leaning against the wall to relieve some of the pressure on his back and shoulders.

Jim stopped in his tracks and turned on the spot to face John again.

"I _should!_" he shouted, showing rather more anger than he had intended. "I can _burn_ you." he continued, once again crossing to John's position.

"Sherlock Holmes is MINE!" Jim growled, his face mere centimetres away from John's own, "Do not underestimate me, Doctor Watson," he continued, "I have killed before to keep my Sherly, and I will not _hesitate_ to do it again!"

Jim clenched his fists at his side, standing and taking a long deep breath in an attempt to control his anger. He needed to keep calm or this wouldn't go to plan. If he killed John now, it would be too much, too soon. It wouldn't work. He would lose his leverage and in doing so, he would lose Sherlock. Again.

John just sat, quietly shaking his head.

"Has Sherlock told you nothing about me, John? Nothing at all? He should have learned the first time. In university, there was a girl. A girl. Can you believe that?"

John sat silently staring, allowing Jim to carry on with his tirade as he paced.

"She threatened to get in the way. To get between me and my Sherly. She dared..." Jim took another calming breath. "She dared to come between us."

Jim swung back around to face John again.

"I did warn him. I warned him what would happen. I arranged for Suzette's _demise,_ and I can certainly arrange for yours... Doctor Watson."

Jim's whole body resonated with an intense anger that he was struggling to control and he hated it. Jim hated how out of control Sherlock made him feel.

He threw a punch at John, catching him low, between his cheekbone and jaw, knocking him sideways slightly.

It helped; lessened the pain; the anger. He swung a second time, landing his fist against John's nose and hearing a gut-wrenching crack as John doubled over.

"I do hate getting my hands dirty, John. I really do. But don't you _see_ what Sherly drives me to? I won't be made a fool of again."

Jim stood and straightened himself out, once more giving the impression of calm and control.

"Right, Sebby." he barked at Moran who was stood close by with his pistol still aimed at the doctor, just in case, "Be a dear and get Sherlock on the phone for me, would you? I think it's time he realised just how serious I am."


	39. Chapter 38

Sherlock was laid on the sofa, fingers tented beneath his chin and eyes closed in contemplation when his phone started vibrating on the table.

He glanced at the clock - 10.30pm - too early for John to be calling, he thought. Unless he wanted something? Or needed...

He flung himself into a sitting position and reached for his phone.

Without paying any attention to the number on the display, he answered.

"John?"

A recognisable laugh at the other end indicated otherwise.

"Oh, Sherly." Jim chuckled, "You really do have it bad, don't you?"

"Jim." Sherlock replied flatly. His stomach roiled as a thousand different scenarios presented themselves to him.

"Well, Sherly," Jim continued, ignoring Sherlock's obvious inner turmoil, "You were half-right, of course. Your Doctor Watson is, in fact, here with me. Say hi, John!" Jim sang, his voice echoing in the void of the warehouse.

Sherlock strained his ears to listen. Was John really there, or was this another one of Jim's tricks. He didn't hear anything except a scuffle at first, then, after a moment and a loud thud, he heard a familiar voice.

"Sherlock?"

It was John. His John. Jim had John.

He fought the panic that rose in him, winding its fingers around his nervous system and threatening to squeeze the life out of him.

"What do you want?" Sherlock finally said, battling to keep his voice calm and steady, not showing his true terror.

"You, Sherlock." Jim responded matter-of-factly. "I want _you. _A car will be there in five minutes. If you try any funny business, do not expect to be seeing John any time soon. Perhaps I will keep him for myself. He does seem like he would be such good fun to play with." the Irishman taunted before hanging up the call.

Sherlock slowly stood and crossed to the bedroom. This was it then. He knew what he had to do.

He headed to the bedroom and dressed before going up to John's room and retrieving his pistol, tucking it into his back pocket.

Wrapping himself in his trademark Belstaff and blue scarf, he headed down to the street to wait for the car, sending a single text message as he exited 221.

* * *

"Sherly!" The Irish tones were really starting to grate on John's nerves now, and he almost growled as Jim purred out Sherlock's nickname. "So wonderful of you to join our little soirée!"

Sherlock shrugged off the grip that Moran had on his arm and looked across to John. He looked hurt. Split lip and possibly a broken nose. He resisted the urge to cross over to him, deciding that would be too much showing his hand.

The look didn't escape Jim's attention, of course. He tilted his head, smiling at John and then turning back to Sherlock before nodding a silent instruction to Moran.

Moran nodded back and pulled his pistol, levelling it once more at the doctor's head.

Jim extended his hand towards Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

"The gun, Sherlock." he demanded with a beckoning curl of his fingers. "I know you have it. Don't be doing something stupid, Sherly. Really. Please?"

Sherlock sighed and reached for the weapon.

"Slowly..." Jim warned, approaching the detective warily. "You know how trigger-happy my Sebby can be." Jim winked at Moran who chuckled maniacally.

Sherlock glanced briefly to Moran and John and turned back to Jim, carefully handing over the loaded pistol.

Jim tutted. "Really, Sherly, I am disappointed. I tried to make this easy for you. I really did. You come with me and John doesn't get hurt. I gave you the chance yesterday. There was no need for it to come to this. There really wasn't." he shook his head and sighed, coming in close to Sherlock and standing toe to toe.

"But now, now it is just a simple swap, right? John for you. You come with me, and your little pet gets to run free." Jim raised his hand and stroked a finger along Sherlock's cheekbone. "However", he continued, flatting his hand and cupping it on Sherlock's face, "if you refuse, of course, your friend John here will meet the same end that your friend Suzette did. I'm sure we can make it look like a suicide, can't we, Sebby? What do you think? His new lover leaves him so he kills himself? Sounds plausible, right?"

Moran nodded, an evil grin spread across his face. "Sounds feasible to me, boss." he agreed.

"So, Sherly." Jim said, pulling Sherlock's face down to his and planting a long, unreciprocated kiss on his lips, "What's it to be?"

Sherlock pulled back from Jim's kiss and extended his hands out in front of him, keeping his distance and taking up an aggressive stance. As Moran twitched nervously, torn between keeping watch over John and running to his long-time boss's aid, the warehouse was suddenly overwhelmed with noise and chaos.

Men, dressed all in black, ran in shouting and waving automatic weapons, and behind them, local police followed.

Two of the team leapt on Moran, disarming him in an effortless-looking swift move, and another crossed to Moriarty who, despite being armed with John's pistol, had failed to raise it in his surprise.

Sherlock ran over to John and crouched down next to his friend.

When it was evident that both Moriarty and Moran were safely restrained, Greg entered, waving his police badge.

"James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. I am arresting you both for the kidnapping of John Watson and on suspicion of being involved in the death of Suzette Walker."


	40. Chapter 39

**12 hours earlier**.

"You're sure about this, John?" Greg quizzed his friend, worry plain to see on his face and in his voice. This plan could go terribly wrong. Mortally wrong. "You don't have to do this. I'm sure there are other ways we can get to Moriarty."

John shook his head, adamant. "No. This is the quickest way. Jim Moriarty has had a hold over Sherlock for quite long enough now." he shot a glance in Sherlock's direction. The young Holmes was sat in his armchair, examining his fingernails. He was following the discussion but keeping uncharacteristically quiet. Sherlock noticed John's look and gave him an anxious smile.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft cut in. "Are you certain this is the best course of action?" The elder brother sat on the sofa alongside Greg, swivelling his trademark umbrella in one hand, mindlessly examining the handle as he spoke. His other hand rested on Greg's thigh. Greg's hand was laid over it and gave it a gentle squeeze as Mycroft showed his brotherly concern.

Sherlock broke off the scrutiny of his hands and looked first at Greg, then Mycroft before finally resting his eyes on John who was stood in the kitchen doorway.

"It does seem to be the most expedient method of bringing this whole thing to a conclusion." he finally said, not taking his eyes from John's. "I cannot say that I am entirely happy with John's idea but..." he didn't finish. He knew John's idea was sound. He didn't like it though. It put John in danger.

"Good." John said decisively. "Greg, I will head out to meet you at the pub at about 9pm tonight. I'll make it seem as if I'm looking for a taxi, but I'll walk. Given the deadline that Jim gave to Sherlock, it seems likely that this is when somebody will make their move. If not then, perhaps on my way home later." His voice trailed off slightly, giving away the nerves he was trying to subdue.

Sherlock got up and crossed to where John stood in the doorway. He approached hesitantly, unsure of how to show his feelings about the situation, but as he got closer, John held out a hand, taking a hold of Sherlock's and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"It'll be fine, Sherlock."

John was to be bait. Bait for Moriarty. The information they had seemed to show that, if Sherlock did not agree to leave with Jim, Moriarty himself or, more likely, Moran, would be making a move on John very soon. Perhaps a kidnapping - Sherlock shuddered at the thought - in an attempt to lure Sherlock out to leave with Jim.

Given all the information they had, it seemed the most likely plan.

All the four of them had to do was find a way to make this prior knowledge work for them.

John would wear a wire. Any information he could get Jim to share while he was his captive, could be incriminating and valuable as evidence.

Sherlock would ensure that he informed Mycroft and Greg as soon as he heard from Moriarty, giving them a location or any other additional information that would enable them to get a team in.

And everyone would hope that it all went to plan.

* * *

**The morning after the night before.**

"I'm fine, Sherlock", John repeated for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

He had found himself being taken to hospital in an ambulance after the team had swarmed the warehouse and taken Moriarty and Moran in.

Staff had fixed his broken nose and cleaned him up, sending him home soon after dawn.

Since then, he'd been resting up on the sofa with Sherlock buzzing around him like a nurse maid.

"Tea!" Sherlock jumped out of the armchair and marched towards the kitchen. "I shall make you tea."

John let out a resigned sigh. Sherlock only wanted to help; to feel useful; to not feel responsible. John empathised with the feeling, having felt the same in recent days.

"Tea would be great, thanks." he replied, lifting himself into a sitting position and wincing as he jarred his shoulders, still a bit painful from being tied behind his back.

A few short minutes later, Sherlock arrived with two mugs of tea, setting them down on the coffee table and sitting alongside his flatmate on the sofa.

"Mrs Hudson bought milk." he stated calmly, giving John a sideways glance as he flopped back against the worn leather. John turned his head, looking at Sherlock, seeing his friend's inner guilt.

"Sherlock", he began, placing a hand on the detective's arm, "I'm fine. Jim and Moran are being held somewhere secure. Greg is certain that they now have more than enough evidence to charge them not only with my kidnapping and GBH, but also with being responsible with Suzette's death."

Sherlock shifted his body slightly, turning to face John. He watched John swallow hard and felt his breath hitch slightly.

"I know, John." he managed to say, after a deep stuttering breath, and he leaned his head back, letting his flatmate; his friend; his partner rest his own on Sherlock's shoulder.

John gave a soft smile.

A smile that said everything would be OK; that said Sherlock and John would be OK.


	41. Epilogue

Sherlock Holmes' greatest problem wasn't that he was an occasional user of cocaine.

It wasn't dark red velvet and rich deep purple in antique silver.

It wasn't that for almost his whole adult life, Sherlock had consistently pushed away friends to keep them from harm.

It wasn't that his elder brother Mycroft had fought this trend and found himself in a relationship with Gregory Lestrade.

It wasn't that Jim Moriarty had once again plotted to ruin his life, this time failing.

It wasn't even that there was a long and complicated road ahead for Sherlock and John.

A road filled with uncertainty and newness, but also compassion and love.

No, Sherlock Holmes' greatest problem was that he was utterly and completely in love with one Doctor John Watson.

But, you know what? That's not so bad, and do you know why?

Well, Doctor John Watson, he loves Sherlock too.


End file.
